


A Convenient Amnesia

by halfnorn



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfnorn/pseuds/halfnorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A business empire forged on nepotism caves under its own weight; a disenfranchised Morgana meets her saviour on a plane, Arthur's life is thrown entirely off-kilter, and Merlin and Gwen get stuck in the crossfire as everything goes to hell. Fight Club fusion, written for Reel_Merlin at LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Convenient Amnesia

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Con that is dub but not in the traditional way (if you've watched the movie, you'll know what I'm talking about), minor character death, violence, and sexytimes.
> 
> With great thanks to my Queen of Betas, mpoetess, who revised this over fuck-knows-how-many incarnations and finally kicked me and said Len, I thought this was done FOUR VERSIONS AGO, and with great ♥ to shesakicker, who beta'd this and encouraged me throughout despite her better judgement. Finally, thanks to everyone who read over this and suggested changes and edits, especially septembergrrl and rushin_doll. The title, incidentally, comes from a Bad Religion song by name of Sowing The Seeds Of Utopia, which clearly displays how much of a right dork I am.

_We all know politicians only go just half-way there._

-=-

The word 'family dinners' is an oxymoron with this group of people, Morgana thinks. There's no sense of family about this enormous table in the sterilized room with the gourmet dishes. She sits on one end, Uther at another, and Arthur somewhere hopelessly in between. There's probably symbolism to be found in there somewhere, but thinking about it isn't doing her much good. If anything, it's bloody depressing.

Silence falls as soon as Arthur's artificial laughter dies down. Morgana is suddenly all too acutely aware of the size of the room, because that raucous sound carried, and it takes a moment or two before the echo has faded. She, herself, has no intention of laughing it up – she doesn't see a cause to, if she is perfectly frank. She's more interested in glaring daggers at Uther, who is, as is becoming distressingly more frequent, being a terrible, amoral _prig_.

Uther hasn't noticed Morgana's own icy silence, or the way she keeps shooting frustrated looks at his forehead. One day, she thinks, vindictively, she's going to manage to put a hole right through into that narrow little mind and sort out whatever it is that took away his good graces.

"And how is your branch?" he asks, idly, watching the wine in his goblet sloshing around (no doubt). Like clockwork, she gets a look from Arthur. She knows what it means: _Don't rock the boat. Don't make this harder than it already is._ It wouldn't be the first time she wishes he'd man up and state his mind; it also wouldn't be the first time she wishes she could reach under the table and kick him. Uther's sense of interior decorating leaves something to be desired, and his table is far too long to be of any use.

She can tell by the circles under Arthur's eyes that he hasn't been sleeping much recently; another detail Uther hasn't seen fit to comment on. She wonders if he ever even bothers to look. She is much the same, but she has been for years now: nightmares plague her endlessly, and the fuzzy sheen of a world that hasn't quite been pulled into focus covers her every waking moment.

"We aren't paying the workers enough," she says, the whole reason she's consented to this meal to begin with. "And their hours are too long. Perhaps if we didn't enforce this ridiculous ban on magic in the workplace, things might actually start to _work_\--"

She knows how Uther will react when his knife stops sawing methodically into his steak. Of course, he doesn't look up, doesn't take a second to recognise her, but instead simply says, "Don't be ridiculous. You know the use of magic is against the law."

"A law which _you_ funded," Morgana bites at him. The hypocrisy of it stuns her every time, overwhelms her questionable affections for the man, and ties itself up in an ugly part of her stomach. She has been the head of manufacturing for a long time now. She has had to see men and women work themselves into exhaustion, has had to see minimum wage at work. Some of them had been straining with the effort of keeping their own abilities in: it's a shameful violation of human rights, if you ask her. (Not that anyone ever does) "Or have you forgotten how much money you've pumped into the lobby against it? Almost as much as the money we've earned off the contracts for the government – you know, the ones that enable us to register their names and homes like they're _animals_\--"

"Morgana," Arthur says, stepping in like the diplomat he isn't. She _also_ knows what he's going to say, for sheer familiarity's sake. This is nothing new. "I've been monitoring the finances. Our labourers are getting paid more than enough. They have food, they have ample holiday time--"

"Half of them are packed eight or more to a building," she shoots back. "We've had at least four wind up in hospital just this month. And that is _hardly_ the point--"

"Yes," Arthur returns, testily, "Because of one single incident. I'm sorry, Father, she doesn't really mean this. It's just an old argument between the two of us, don't let it spoil your dinner."

"No, it's quite all right." Uther's knife has begun its sawing motion once again. "But Morgana, I would advise you not to test the word of the law. It has only negative repercussions, especially when it involves dabbling in such questionable practices as _magic_. It twists people. That's hardly what we should wish on our staff." There is finality in his voice. "As to the registration effort, it is vital to keep our nation safe. You are well aware of that."

All that's left to Morgana is to glare across the table, and catch Arthur's tired eyes, as if to say, _traitor_.

He lifts one shoulder, a useless gesture, and excuses himself from the table. Accounting business, he says. Discomfort, she hears: because he disagrees, but he's too much of a coward to change it.

"Well," Morgana says, bitingly, as she watches him go, "This has been ever such a _genial affair_."

On the other end of the table, Uther smiles. "It has, hasn't it?" he says, without irony. "Have more wine."

-=-

One day, Arthur will be CEO.

In all these years, he's never truly felt like one, or at least not like he would make for one that would do much good, but it's hardly his part to argue with the state of the universe. Or something. Father is occasionally prone to the kind of hyperbole that even Arthur can't really twist into anything meaningful.

Not that he would ever say that much.

The point is: he will be CEO, because father ordained it, and because as much as Morgana may be screaming and shouting right now he does in fact care for his people, and he'd rather they don't get a rotten deal out of their work life. He's well aware how much influence the company has on politics in general – it is invaluable in terms of commerce and economy in this country, and the ones it trades with. All of this makes it vital that he does his job, and that he does it competently.

"I don't care what you say, Morgana," he says, with what he feels is a really bloody gracious amount of patience, "Father will not have magic in our stores and neither should he. It's against the law, and it's meant to protect our people--"

"From what? Their own agency?" she laughs, and Arthur finds himself entranced by the sudden onset of a familiar headache. He deeply wishes he could have had a word with Father before he sent her off to some expensive college where she learned about terms like 'agency' - she's never been the same since. She should have been studying to secure her position in the company; instead, Marxism wound up catching her fancy, and in Morgana's hands, it's a tool as deadly as it is irritating. "Nevermind that we should be _opposing_ government registration, not _carrying it out_. Since when are we Big Brother? Since when are _they_ cattle?"

"Either way, picking fights over the dinner table is not going to make him change his mind," he snaps. "I am trying to _save_ your career, could you please try not to _sabotage_ that -- if it isn't too _inconvenient_?" It's not like Arthur doesn't have his own ideals, things he'd like to put into practice one day – but the company works, and it works for a reason.

She tosses her hair and turns abruptly. "I can deal with my own career," she says. "You can barely even deal with yourself." Her tone shifts just as quick. "What's it you're taking this week? Echinacea?"

One of these days, Arthur is going to stop walking right into it when she comes up with these sudden subject changes. Today isn't that day, though, and he lets her run him off course. "My doctor says the herbal route might work," he says, stiffly. "I told him you've already tried it, but he won't give me anything else."

Morgana snorts in a highly unladylike way. "Doctors," she says, and there is a kind of annoyance in her voice that he can at least sympathise with. Not that it means that he's forgotten about their earlier argument, but picking it up again now is tantamount to enabling himself into committing a murder-suicide.

"At least I'm still trying," he says instead, a predictable and perpetually useful conversation-stopper, and nods towards the door. "Shall I walk you to your cab?"

He gets that look that tells him he's just _adorable_, and now he can go stuff himself. "Maybe if you picked more fights with him yourself you'd be a little happier and you wouldn't need it," she says, and sashays out of the hallway before he gets a chance to come up with a decent retort. (Not that he needs one, because she's clearly being bloody ridiculous and he shouldn't have to put up with it one way or the other-- which means he wins by default)

Left to his own devices, he pulls on his coat and opens up the large doors himself, unsurprised to find that Morgana has already fled the premises. A blast of cold air hits him in the face and he adds a scarf to the ensemble, digging for some warmth. It's a futile search as even the fine wool won't keep the chill at bay. The streets look as grey and unfocused as they ever do, dull in their crowded desolation.

He could have called a cab himself, but despite – or perhaps in spite of - the weather, he decides to take a walk. With long, measured steps he makes his way across the roads and curbs of the city. All the scenery flits him by like yesterday's news. Tomorrow morning he will return to the office, get his forms, and start on another day, another step closer to that ultimate authority that awaits him at the end of the line. He can't afford not to be diligent in his work, but he _can_ afford to drag his feet tonight, and in this rare occasion he will.

He's not even sure why, exactly, but there's something in the air. Perhaps it's the way father has been getting more distracted lately. Perhaps it's those four workers, taking a dive – and dammit, that was a company accident, unfortunate but _no one's fault_, let alone his for implementing father's laws.

Still, it seems to have rattled him.

Tonight, he takes the long jog up to his empty flat, unlocks the door and enters. Toughens his resolve by telling himself, loudly, that it's ridiculous to linger, that it's more useless than spouting poetry about his woes into the wind or picking a fight with his father over the law like Morgana insists on doing.

There are more practical concerns to deal with – that's why the first person he calls is his doctor.

So is the second.

On the third call, and right around when Arthur is about to give up and give in to his whirlwind thoughts, the physician groans into the phone, and says, "You don't have problems. You think you have problems. Stop _thinking_ about it and it'll probably all go away." And he hadn't even _said_ anything yet.

"That is the most useless advice anyone has ever given me," Arthur replies, unsure whether he's surprised, frustrated, offended or all three. "It's not like I _want_ to be awake at three o' clock in the morning every night, drinking shitty chai and watching whatever the cock's on IPTV. I need to be productive during the working day--"

"You have tried everything I've got. We've been through this. What you _don't_ need is pills," the doctor tells him, the prick. It's a very old argument. Ancient. Terribly ancient. It's disturbing that he hasn't won it yet. "What you _need_ is some perspective."

Arthur takes a moment to detach the horn from his ear so he can give it the glare he can't give the man in person. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Go by the center near St. John the Baptist's," the shit-eating twat says, uselessly, "See all the blokes with testicular cancer. Now _those_ people need help."

"I don't need help," Arthur informs him, clipped, "I just need medication."

"You need sleep," the gormless fuckwit continues, "and so do I. Good night, Mr. Pendragon."

He continues to glare at the horn for a full five minutes after the tell-tale beep-beep-beep noise has faded, practically hurls his TV dinner into the oven and considers the prospect of learning just enough magic in secret to light people on fire with his mind.

Over the phone.

By dial tone.

Even if Father would probably disapprove.

The imagined violence gets him to at least pretend he's sleeping for the next two hours, when he wakes again and the whole thing resumes like it _always_ does. In the end, he settles for Pot Noodles and glares his way through the commercial breaks.

-=-

"Sorry I'm late," Morgana says, closing the door gently behind her. Gwen looks up, all kind smiles and a hint of fuss, and shrugs both of her shoulders as she readjusts the flowers sitting on Morgana's dinner table.

"It's all right," she says, like the sweetheart she is. "You're always a bit off when you come back from Mr. Pendragon's, so I actually let myself in early." There's a light dimpling of her face, something approaching a blush.

It makes Morgana smile. "Did you bring these in?" she asks, leaning over to sniff the flowers. She can at least pretend the scent still registers under the heady weight of her own insomnia. "I should have never given you a key. One day I'll wake up and this flat will have turned into a butterfly garden."

"And you'd like it," Gwen says, impishly. "Lance liked the azaleas so I thought I'd add some. You do need a little more colour in your flat, you know."

"I know," she replies. The smile on her face is instinct, something Gwen always manages to coax out. Of course, it used to be more often, before Guinevere's love life began to dominate most of her time, leaving Morgana to ineptly water her own decaying flowers every day. It would be cruel, though, for Morgana to wish she didn't have Lance. She smiles more these days. Dances through the house.

Still, Morgana wishes Gwen was still all about _her_. It's just not right, her world seems tilted now, her best friend flitting ever further from her grasp. "So have you two finally set a date?" she asks, with more bravado than she feels. "Honestly. You'll wind up being the world's oldest engaged couple. Feeding each other chocolate in the old people's home the day before your bachelorette party."

"We're not _that_ bad," Gwen argues, indulgently, but her voice sounds far away. They used to be the most codependent set of people in the world, but now even their chatter sounds forced, and Morgana lingers over the flowers simply because it's the only thing she can think of doing.

"Well, then," she says, grinning. Her cheeks hurt. "Let's see these TV boxsets you've been talking about on the phone all the time."

Gwen laughs, and bustles towards the kitchen. "Not until you eat your greens. You look like you've been losing stones by the day."

-=-

Arthur looks up at the building with an irritated sigh. He doesn't even know why he's _there_, considering it's a pointless exercise given to him by an absolute wanker of a doctor who can't even be arsed to do his _job_ let alone deal out credible advice about anyone's life choices.

The building looks like someone squashed a pancake and then cut a square out of it. Utterly without personality. Par for the course, if you ask him. He crumples up the note in his hand and tosses it at the nearest trash can without a thought. His feet take him to the door, which takes him to a hallway peppered with a scent that's faint and not entirely pleasant, which takes him to an equally shapeless, distant-looking classroom.

It's still mostly empty. He's early. But there are a few men, hanging about in the corners, looking every inch like they've given up on life.

It makes him feel faintly uncomfortable, and strangely at home.

Or so he thinks, at least, until the door behind him swings open to reveal a hulking man with very large tits. _Leon_, says his name tag, which is pinned between those two bulging monstrosities. Arthur finds he has great trouble looking away from it. What kind of den of mutants has he wandered into?

He greets Arthur cheerfully. Arthur has trouble not saying something like _Hi, Leon, have you noticed that you have a _giant_ rack?_ aloud, but he manages avoid it by sheer act of God. Instead, he grasps Leon's hands and mutters a distant, "Hi." He likes to think it's confident.

His own name tag, it's important to note, does not read _Arthur_. It doesn't read anything remotely close to his name, in fact.

It reads _Constantinius_, and it only does so because Arthur had a panic attack (no, he had a collected moment of... recollection) over the fact that _John_ was a bit of a crap excuse for an alias if you really think about it.

He's been watching too many spy film reruns on television recently. He makes a mental note to get more international television channels added to his subscription.

"So you're new here, Constantinius--"

"Just call me Constant," Arthur says, and winces internally.

But Leon just nods in approval and slaps him on the back, tits jiggling as he goes. "Good man," he says, and slaps him again. For a bloke with mammaries he's got a surprisingly strong hand. "Good man," he repeats.

Going to one of these sob-fests for men isn't, Arthur finds, just about sitting around and talking about whatever you've done wrong in your life that has left you a horrible wreck hanging onto a bunch of stained, pathetic men for support. Though that bit is ridiculous enough.

No, it's about something far more insidious than that: hugging.

Arthur, who has just sat through what feels like five hours of stories about people's balls falling off, isn't sure what he's supposed to do about that. People in his family don't hug: if they're lucky, they clap each other on the shoulder every so often and say something about doing a better job the next day, or the closest appropriate statement.

But Leon is already barreling towards him, chest and all, with his sad eyes and the shaggy beard and the off-red hair, and all right. Maybe Arthur isn't a completely selfish bastard. Maybe he isn't just here because he can't sleep and there's nothing better to do. Maybe he hasn't barged into this shitty cellar and made friends with this whale of a man just because even his own bloody doctor won't give him the time of day and he feels like he has something to prove.

He lets himself think that as Leon wraps his arms around him and his head lands – oh god – snugly between the two unnatural sweaty bags on his chest. There is warmth, there, and a voice repeating, over and over, "You can cry," like something out of a useless Lifetime video for women and those poor plonkers who can't help but sit on their couches bawling every day.

Or like you're five years old, and you've just had the worst day to end all horrible days, and your mother gives you a warm hug and tells you it'll all be all right, really, you'll be fine, and it doesn't matter what you do. You'll be fine, and good, and right. Like the films, where she holds you gently and says she loves you, don't worry.

Everything will be all right.

Someone in the room makes a snottery noise that sounds a lot like an elephant blubbering his tears into a dirty rag. He gently pulls his face away, and finds himself blinking. The room is eerily silent.

To his consternation, Arthur realises that it's him, and he's just left a giant, hourglass-shaped stain in the fabric across Leon's chest. It smells like a putrescent mix of sweat and tears and snot and when he pulls back, Leon's watery-looking face has broken into a smile. Pathetic.

To put insult to injury, he sleeps like a baby that night.

-=-

Three days later, Arthur's sterile flat is littered with folders. A meeting for people suffering from brain parasites (m/f), breast cancer (f, m encouraged), alcoholics, tuberculosis sufferers, two types of mental handicaps and, of course, testicular cancer, three meetings spread out across the week in different buildings.

He has put all of them in an Excel spreadsheet.

He refuses to talk about it.

He especially refuses to talk about it when Morgana blasts straight back into his flat, leaving the hinges of the door swinging and (in his imagination, at least) followed by a trail of tiny demons clinging to the edges of her dress and cackling.

Listen, he needs something to do with his time, especially when she's coming in and messes up his _things_. "Don't touch that," Arthur warns, veering up in his seat. There's something she's holding and he's just realised what it is.

"Testicular cancer, Arthur?" Morgana asks, with a raised brow. "Is there something you haven't told me? Because if you're hurt--"

"I'm fine," he snaps, and yanks the folder from her hands. "I'm just browsing."

"Browsing."

Of course she'd do that. Arthur sighs and rubs his temple. "Browsing," he repeats, "I'm working out a schedule for a friend of mine. You might remember what they are. Friends. Or maybe not."

The scowl he gets is _entirely_ unwarranted. "Have you ever?" she asks, blasé, "or is that what you call your television set these days? I _had_ considered swinging by the grocery store to get you another pint of Chunky Monkey, but I thought you might have handled that yourself."

"Why are you even _here_?" he asks. Usually when she storms into his flat like she thinks she's a whirlwind or something, she has some ulterior purpose that she's planning to wrangle him for. He doubts today is much different.

"To check on my step-brother who's dropped off the map for three days now," she says, with an arch of her brow, "but since it's obvious that you're still as much a prat as you've ever been, I think I can consider you _checked on_!"

With a groan, he flops back against the couch. "Whatever, Morgana. Is this about _Gwen_ again?" he asks, snidely. He's feeling defensive, and she needs to stop just walking into his house without calling, anyway. Maybe he's a bit uncharitable because of it, but honestly now: "Has she finally sent you scuttling off for good?"

The apple that beans him upside the head? Also unwarranted.

-=-

Morgana is livid.

She can't even think straight. The _nerve_ of him.

As a way of petty revenge, she doesn't bother to shut the door behind her, or at least doesn't let it lock. If Arthur is set upon by burglars, then all the better; it'll suit him right for stealing her enjoyment of the day. It's sunny. She should be smiling and spending her time elsewhere, with--

That thought finds itself cut off abruptly, and she stomps down the stairs, making sure Arthur hears every bit of it. What she needs is to get out of here. What she needs is somewhere else, somewhere where she belongs, or at least where she doesn't belong in such a way that it doesn't matter.

What she needs, she decides, right then and there, is a holiday.

It takes a week, a few tactically placed phonecalls and a great deal of radio silence from Arthur (of _course_ he wouldn't apologise – he probably had the ability excised at birth) before she can get it. It's nothing fancy. The only way Morgana can get away right now is if she books it as a work holiday, and that means the Isle of Man is about as far as she'll be able to get.

It _is_ elsewhere, though, and with the spring sun set on the back of her head she can pretend like it's a tropical hideaway. She smiles her way through meetings with stockholders and employees, drops a gentle word here or there as to the treatment of magical workers, spends a lot of time out on the porch reading fancy romance novels or lounging by a pool that's still too cold to use.

She doesn't talk to anyone friendly the whole time, beyond a few words to the charming, big-eared fellow she bumps into at the buffet. As it turns out, the boy – whose name escapes her already – sympathises with her point of view on magic in the workplace. It's almost, almost enough to shatter some of her isolation.

"It should be something marvelous," Morgana says, "Shouldn't it? Using magic, moving things with your mind, setting candles alight, that sort of thing. Maybe if everyone with the talent took a step forward and said 'this is enough', we could stop this repression and move on into better things."

The boy (and she still can't recall his name) shrugs a shoulder, and smiles sheepishly. "Maybe," he says, and fidgets. "I mean, if they did, that'd be nice."

And as sudden as that, the fledgling connection seems to tear away; before Morgana can argue that words are one thing but actions are needed, the boy has excused himself, slipped away and out of sight.

She sighs and returns to her meal.

-=-

The flight back is at a time most unfortunate in the morning. Morgana has half a mind to give the man responsible an earful. People couldn't possibly be expected to drink coffee at this hour, let alone go through all the hoops involved in boarding a _plane_, especially for a flight that'll last less than half an hour.

She sits down primly in her seat and glares at the back of the chair in front of her. It's too far away, which means she's by the emergency exit. It's the last time she's ever going to go as far as to fly coach just to be defiant, because the lecture by the incredibly patronizing steward isn't worth the relatively minor point she's making to Uther about his money and where he can stick it.

Really, she hates planes. They turn the world into this tiny microcosm of itself, where everything has only one use and is then discarded, where the air is stale and the company is often lacking. She sits back and prepares herself for another short, horrible flight; pretends the walls give away and the aircraft comes apart. It's the only semblance of excitement she'll have all day.

"You look bored."

She jerks up out of her stupor, and glances up. Her eyes don't find the bored housewife or the fat salaryman she was expecting, the kind you usually see in the coach area on these domestic flights. Instead, the face that greets her is that of a slim but muscular woman, a faint smile on her face, her blonde hair long, tied back.

"We're on a plane," Morgana says, "it's hardly the most exciting thing on Earth."

"I find that excitement rests in how we treat the world around us," the woman replies, and she sits down in the seat next to her. She's wearing simple grey trousers, an entirely unremarkable blouse, and yet Morgana finds that she's pulled towards her, like a strange gravity she doesn't comprehend. "Or at least in avoiding spending a whole flight pretending like we're one of the faces on an in-flight safety card."

Morgana shoots her a funny look. She can't parse the statement – but before she can ask the question, the strange woman is holding up the safety card itself. One carefully manicured nail taps the picture almost idly. "Look at that," she says. "They're using oxygen masks. Why do you think that is?"

There's something odd about the question, or maybe it's the intensity of the stranger's eyes as she asks it. "I don't know," Morgana says, her head at a defiant tilt to obscure how confused she is. "To make sure we can keep breathing when the pressure in the cabin fails us."

"Wrong," her neighbour replies, and tucks the card neatly back into the netting in front of her. "Oxygen produces a high. It makes you docile, unable to do anything besides accept your fate." She pats the card gently. "That's the average plane traveller," she says, "Calm as a Hindu cow in the face of complete obliteration."

Morgana's part in this conversation is, it appears, to laugh nervously. To take a look at the headrest of the seat miles away from her so she can pretend she isn't sneaking looks at the blonde from underneath her eyelashes. "That's interesting," she says, finally, feeling anything but herself. The silence that follows drives her to feel even more foolish, and she's about to strike up some inane conversation when the woman speaks again.

"I am Morgause," she introduces herself. "I make and sell soap."

Her smile is light, easy, and yet weighted with something Morgana can't place.

"With a little touch of magic."

A frown creases Morgana's brow. "I didn't think it was legal to use magic for personal ends any more," she starts, quietly.

Morgause shrugs, and pats her briefcase. "We have been trained since birth to believe that all of these laws and governments mean something, that we're tied to their will," she says, "Cows again. I'm not about to start following the leader, chewing my cud. You can sit in your own manure, if you'd like."

Morgana shakes her head violently. "Never," she says, vehemently. "Being complacent is everything I've never wished to be, and I'm not about to start."

Morgause's eyes flicker towards her dress, her expensive bag, all the little hallmarks that show clearly to everyone that she's simply here because she's slumming it on purpose. For the first time, Morgana actually feels it that way, too, and she nearly pulls her limbs towards herself to protect it. "How's that working out for you?" the blonde asks, leisurely.

"...fine," she says, but she's looking away. "I'm working out fine, thank you."

Another shrug is her part. "You know, you can make a lot of extraordinary things out of the mundane," Morgause replies, conversationally. "For example, did you know that frozen orange juice concentrate can be used to make napalm?"

"Really?"

And the blond simply gives her a smile, that soft, mysterious one that makes Morgana feel like for once she's not falling, she's flying.

"If the need strikes," she says, "the tools we require are all around us."

-=-

Her return isn't nearly as exciting. In fact, it is anything but. There is moisture on her door when she reaches it, several steps up, and when she finally opens it she finds there's water on her floor. Enough water to create a small lake, in fact, and Morgana is almost surprised to find that there aren't new and interesting creatures living in her house.

The water turns her nice, comfortable boots a sickly dark brown. They're never going to be the same again.

She places a call, and then sits on the stairs while the repairmen come in and stroll through her house, poke through her things and work on her pipes until the verdict is finally, fully crystal-clear: one of the mains has burst and most of her house has drowned.

It's not safe because some of the wiring has come loose; "You're lucky you didn't get electrocuted," says the old man with the wrench who finally stomps down the stairs to tell her what's gone on. "No one's going to let you in that house, ma'am, not if they've got half a brain in them."

"But all of my things are in there," Morgana says, and finds that in this long, disturbing night, she's still got a fair bit of _appalled_ to go around. Angry, irritated, frustrated, take your pick. "You can't just lock my out of my own house! Can't you just mop the place a bit?"

The man stares at her as if she's insane. "I wouldn't let a family of rats live in there," he says, "I'd suggest you find somewhere else to stay for the night, at the very least."

"This is unconscionable," she rails, "Is this what the efficiency of government maintenance has gotten to? I have money, you know--"

"Right now, you've got a soggy house and nowhere to sleep," he interrupts her, "Have you got any family at all--?"

"No one that's of any _use_," she spits.

There is nothing satisfying about the way the man shrugs and heads back up the stairs, and she's left on her own, soaked, miserable, and incensed. She won't let Uther have the satisfaction of giving her shelter. Arthur has been a complete ass, and so he, too, is not an option.

She winds up calling Gwen's home, but it goes to voice mail. She tries Gwen's cell, and gets nothing but a quick, "Out with Lance, we'll talk later, bye!" before she can get as much as a word in. She could send a text, she knows, but that one phrase gets that sinking feeling lodged back into her stomach and she hates it, hates _all_ of it, every one of the bloody useless tossers in her life--

Her mobile hits the side wall of her ruined house and comes apart, sending bits and bobs skittering in all directions, the picture-perfect of her rage. Fine. If there is no one on this Earth she can speak to, she'll have to go elsewhere. There's always an elsewhere.

Half an hour later, she's standing on Morgause's doorstep, bedraggled, and clinging on to her card.

The blonde does not seem surprised. The blonde looks _serene_, at peace, like something Morgana really, truly wants. It's a shame that the house she lives in is a wreck in and of itself, close to Morgana's own. There's a hole in the roof that's had a bit of tarp pulled over it, and the pillars between which Morgause stands are torn and covered in grafitti.

None of that matters.

"Of course I'll let you in," Morgause says, and smiles at her. Once again, it makes Morgana feel like flying – but that's a secondary thing in comparison to the cold of her wet clothes and the strands of her hair clinging to her face.

"Well, could you get on with it?" she asks, then blanches at her own attitude. "I'm sorry. I really am grateful for the shelter. I didn't know where else to turn."

"I have a roof to put over your head," Morgause says. The step up creaks dangerously under Morgana's feet. "Think you can live with that?"

Morgana is grateful.

She is slightly less so when she finds out the hard way that absolutely nothing in the house works, but grateful none the less.

-=-

The last week or so has been brilliant – provided Arthur ignores exactly what it is that lets him sleep at night. He doesn't want to think about the embarrassing time every night where he manages to bawl on some perfect stranger, doesn't want to think about the name cards and the coffee, and so far? It's worked. It's worked very well.

Visiting the support groups doesn't impede on the rest of his life in any other way. It's out of his usual path, it's filled with people far below his level, and even if it wasn't, there's an air of confidentiality there that lets him shed anything and everything but the Zen-like calm it grants him on the way home.

It doesn't matter if it's lung cancer or a brain parasite. These groups all come down to the same thing.

Arthur counts himself lucky for having sorted out that problem in his life, and locks it up, marks it done with and keeps going. Months pass by. It's a wonderful thing, a blessed escape that has all the hallmarks of what he _really_ needs right up until somehow his ride slips into the wrong gear and the world comes to a screeching, sudden _stop_ with burning rubber soaring through the air. (Something like that, anyway. Perhaps Arthur is in a dramatic mood, but he's got no apologies to make to anyone, let alone to his own rambling mind.)

The problem is taller than him. Black-haired. In possession of an idiotic smile that makes him look as if he's just escaped from an insane asylum. He isn't there one day, and then he is there the next: Arthur recognises him for what he is, instantly, like picking Waldo out from a crowd of 60s beach patrons.

The first time he notices the bloke, it's a Tuberculosis Thursday and Arthur is just about to get up and track down Bedwyr for his venting hour. Bedwyr has always been reliable that way; he never asks questions, and resolves mostly to endure with a stoic sense of sadness Arthur can appreciate, even understand.

That's when he catches sight of _him_ across the room. It's only with a cursory flick of his eyes, utterly random, that he notices the bloke, but the connection is instant. Recognition.

There's an air of misplaced joy wafting about the guy. Something about the way he smiles and his eyes keep crinkling. It's not right, it's obviously not right, and Arthur is astounded no one else sees it. It's practically written above the man's head in vivid neon: he's a phony, a liar, he _doesn't belong there_, there's no way he could possibly be suffering from any kind of disease. Arthur scowls at him across the room, but the bastard doesn't seem to notice.

Bedwyr's sad eyes wind up blocking his view, but Arthur no longer feels like settling into the warm embrace of something maternal and caring. Arthur is irritated. Arthur cannot believe someone has just barged into his space like he _belongs_ there when clearly, he does not.

It is obscene.

And like that, the obscenity of all of this comes crashing down on him. The feelings, the crying, the hugging. Bedwyr comes at him eventually, but all Arthur feels when his arms come up for a hug is a sense of disconnect, disgust, and a few inches of discomfort. This is stupid.

On the way home, Arthur finds some grim satisfaction in trashing a garbage bin in the park when no one's watching.

Maybe he shouldn't have quit boxing.

 

Of _course_, when Friday rolls around and Arthur has just grabbed his coffee at his lung cancer meeting, there he is again. And now he's not even keeping his distance: he stops by Arthur near the biscuits (one to a person, going with the coffee) and starts stacking up a whole pile of the little things.

"Hi," he says, cheerfully. "You've got a lot of problems, haven't you?" He sounds almost sympathetic. That, Arthur tells himself, is even more obscene.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur grits out, and contemplates slamming his warm cup of coffee into the offending faker's face. Like an advert for the thorough and medicinal defeat of rampant insomnia. "I've only got the one."

"But I saw you at tuberculosis yesterday," the twit hisses back at him. "Isn't there a bit going on in your lungs or something?"

Arthur cannot comprehend the gall of it. "You should know, shouldn't you?" he snarls back. "Keep out of these meetings. You do not belong here."

And the Twit – which is what Arthur's going to call him from now on, because it describes him perfectly – stops with half a biscuit in his mouth and blinks. "You don't have to be so bloody rude," he says, "I was just making some conversation!"

"Is that what you call it?" Arthur asks, and slams down his coffee so hard he only barely misses burning himself. Perhaps best to keep that aimed for the twat, then – no wonder they serve them with warning labels in American fast-food restaurants. "And here I thought you were just prattling into nothingness like some kind of unhinged space cadet."

The Twit's features twist into something ugly. For some inexplicable reason, it makes Arthur feel like a bad person, which just frustrates him more. "Nevermind, then," he says, spilling crumbs everywhere. "Sorry for thinking these people need support, rather than some entitled ass scowling up the place!"

There is a good five seconds where Arthur nearly throttles the Twit where he stands, but Tristan – the ill fellow who looks like he really could keel over any minute– intervenes, slipping between the two of them. "Carl?" he asks of the Twit, "Mind joining me for the guided meditation this time?"

Arthur is bristling. The Twit – or Carl, or whatever – shoots him a beatific smile, and whisks off with Tristan, spilling _faker_ all over the floor as he goes.

Or maybe that's just Arthur's coffee.

"Fuck!"

He leaves early. It's not like the meeting is anything more than sentimental rubbish, anyway, with its spirit caves and spirit animals with entirely too many cheekbones to be genuine.

-=-

By Sunday, Arthur has bought a hamster. He hasn't got the foggiest clue, considering that he's never been particularly fond of fuzzy things unless they came equipped with sharp canines, but he saw it in the store, running about in its wheel, and felt an impulse. He hasn't had a great many of those in his life – at least not ones he could necessarily indulge – and so he follows this one for lack of anything better to do with himself.

He hasn't gone to a meeting on Saturday. Instead, he's stayed in, and watched his hamster run around his maze until he either had to scream or quit staring at it. Television can't keep him calm. There's something itching under his skin, and he can't define it. Occupational therapy clearly isn't working, no matter how much he'd like it to.

Even Father picks up on it: his weekly phone call ends abruptly, right as Arthur's about to maybe, perhaps, somehow, vaguely breach the fact of his own restlessness. He can't say he's particularly unhappy about that, because with the lack of sleep comes the abundance of _thought_, and he'd nearly brought up the accident twice. Had nearly asked his father if they _really_ needed to link the credit card database to the magical registry.

Yes: now that Arthur has bought a hamster, he has to cop to the reality of the situation. He might be going a bit mad. Just a touch. And maybe he's being a bit of a coward, staying away just because some cow-eyed git has moved in on his turf. It is _his_ turf, after all.

Yes, by Saturday evening, Arthur decides he's going to reclaim said turf in the name of Pendragon. He's going to do so where it started, at testicular cancer, and he isn't going to let Carl-or-whatever steal what's rightly his. A Pendragon would never cop to losing anything to a scrawny waif-- he can hear his father lecturing clearly in his head.

The whole world will be restored to its natural order, and he might just be able to catch a nap again.

When the next meeting hits, he's snagging the Twit by the arm before Leon can come at him again. It means he has to shoot Leon a slightly apologetic look – as if to say sorry, mate, I'll be with you and your heaving bosom next time – but it's worth it. No one even bats an eye.

"You need to stay out of this," he hisses, just in case the Twit hadn't gotten the message the first time around and needs a refresher. "These are my groups. This is my turf, and I'll be damned if some rotten thing like you is going to come in and take it."

Unfortunately, the Twit is not as impressed as he should rightly be. Instead, he's grinning again, and quite openly at that. "Have you been practising this?" he asks. "I mean, I've caught you looking at me a few times over the past two months--"

"Shut up," Arthur says, and he might have exceeded hissing by a few decibels. "I need this place. I need these people. They're the only ones--"

"That really listen?" Carl-no-Simon-today guesses, his smile dimming a little into something more sympathetic. "I'm sorry if I ruined your meetings, but I've got every right to be here, too."

The last thing he wants is sympathy. The jostling Simon-or-whatever gets is one cleverly disguised as a hug. For a moment, Arthur can't help but dwell on the fact that the boy has a not entirely uncomfortable level of body heat. "So you're going to go away," he snaps. "Leave me in peace."

"Split the week?" the Twit proposes, tightening his arm around Arthur's back like he doesn't realise he's being threatened. It stokes the fires of Arthur's anger; what is it about this stranger that makes him think he can just talk past him like that? "I like being here. It gives people hope. But, y'know, we can work something out, you don't have to be such an ass about it."

Oh, Christ.

"After. Outside," Arthur snaps, and is relieved – yes, relieved, and nothing else – when the leader of the group announces it's time to get back to the group meeting proper.

 

-=-

By the time _after_ comes around, Arthur has had plenty of time to work himself into a frothing rage.

Which is good, because putting this into perspective might knock him off his original plan, which is to get to go to as many groups as he can without having his vision restricted by those enormous ears. He likes to sit near the back, and they're bloody well distracting.

He stands outside the building, bundled up against the cold and glaring straight ahead of him (that rage really is something) when Wonderboy comes out, all smiles and his hands stuck in the pockets of his coat. He looks like he barely threw on a t-shirt that morning before going out.

"A bit cold, isn't it?" he says, cheerfully, if shivering. "I was going to head down and get myself a new pullover, but you know what they say--"

"Splitting up the week," Arthur says, flatly, before the boy launches himself into a rant. He's angry, and he's not interested in hearing the nattering. He doesn't know exactly why he has to remind himself of that fact.

Whatever-his-name-is purses his lips into an oh, and replies, "Right! Getting right on to that. Have you been talking to anyone about this impatience thing you've got because that can't be healthy--"

"Testicular cancer is mine," Arthur continues.

The Twit pauses, squints at him, and says, "You might want to rephrase that because it sounds a little--"

"And lung cancer," he proceeds, and he's started to walk now. If he is entirely truthful, it is mostly to spite the Twit, who has tiny, itty bitty legs – well, all right, they're _thin_, not short, but it's still obvious that he doesn't have much of a constitution on him, because he has to hurry to keep up with Arthur's long strides. (Arthur isn't the tallest man on Earth, which had occasionally prompted Morgana to accuse him of having a Napoleon complex in the past, but he makes damn sure nobody notices. _Damn_ sure)

"Fine!" They're barely ten feet ahead and already the moron sounds like he's just gone up three flights of stairs. "But I'm taking brain parasites!"

Arthur shoots him an incredulous look over his shoulder. "You are _not_," he says, pointedly.

"But they've got hot chocolate with the cookies!" It has taken him some work, but Twit has finally caught up with Arthur, matching his walk in that ungainly manner he's got. "And Mimouna. She does these lovely things with embroidery--"

Arthur pauses. "Nevermind," he says, "You're clearly more apt at showing signs of mental degradation.."

Due to the sudden ceasing of their movements, the Twit nearly goes barreling into a tree, stops barely in front of it, and then swerves, in a sort of strafing way that looks a lot like he just got yanked sideways by a bus. "Now will you at least take me seriously?" he whines. "I've got every right--"

"--to be there, I know," Arthur grits out. "That's why I'm not just tossing you out on the street."

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"I," Arthur says, holding his chin up high, "Am going to my flat. I don't have a clue where you're going, and I don't want to know. Fine, you've got brain parasites. I get the other one, though. You can't have both."

"Then I'll take brain cancer," the guy says, wisely, and smiles apologetically at a passing old lady. "...Oh, not literally, sorry. I'm perfectly fine." She hurries past him like he's odd.

Which he is, Arthur reminds himself. Very, very odd, and he doesn't want to deal with that. "You want the whole _brain_?"

"Well, one of us has to have one."

Arthur runs that over again in his mind, retraces the conversation, and comes to a harrowing conclusion. "Did you just _insult_ me?"

"I don't know," the Twit says, philosophically, and shoots him a thoroughly braindead look. "Do you feel insulted?"

A palm smacks into Arthur's forehead. He realises it's his own. "Fine," he says, "Take the brain. You need it. And Tuberculosis. Now we've both got three, we're both happy, can we please part ways?"

"Now you're taking the entire lung," the Twit points out, naturally.

"I'm keeping the lung," Arthur informs him.

"Fine, fine." The little idiot waves it off. "If you have to be like that. So, we should probably swap contact numbers, right? For coordination, stuff like that."

"I'm surprised you even know the word," Arthur says, testily, but digs around his pocket for a card. After giving it a moment of thought, he tears off the end that has the name of his father's company on it, and hands it over. Only to find the Twit writing away on a tiny piece of paper.

Figures.

"Oh, all official-like," says the guy-- Merlin, going by his awful handwriting-- without sounding very impressed. "Next thing you'll do is tell me you drive a convertible."

"What's wrong with having a convertible?"

"Nothing," Merlin says, stuffing the card into his pocket, "Unless you don't want the world to know you're an environmentally unconscious prat who's probably going prematurely bald."

There's that nerve again. Arthur's just about to comment when Merlin pauses, and blinks at something across the street, and says, "...Wow, I hope no one's left inside there!" It's a vastly incongruous comment for him to make, and it takes a moment for Arthur to parse.

It isn't that he hadn't heard all the noise down the street when they turned for it, but it was the city at nine PM: anything could be happening. They could have been shooting a film on his block, for God's sakes, and gone a little overeager on the special effects.

He twists around to see what the _fuck_ the moron's blabbing about now when his eyes land on his burning flat on the other end of the road, bits of ash drifting down on top of the fire engines and the police cars and the insane cacophony of noise and image that was once his home.

He stares at it for a minute: the demise of his house, his furniture, his TV, his TV _dinners_ \- all of his work notes. His laptop. Even his Blackberry. Everything, his whole life is up in flames. He'll have to ask for new bank passes, he's going to have to go house hunting again, he's going to have to find somewhere to stay-- go through insurance papers-- did someone try to kill him--

\--and the only thing he can think of saying is, "I knew I shouldn't have bought that hamster."

Merlin shoots him a funny look. He doesn't elaborate, because he has _no idea_.

-=-

Morgana has no idea what she's seeing. It's late, and they're at some bar in the middle of nowhere, a couple of blocks away from the house. And Morgause... Morgause is lifting the bottle of wine with a few well-placed words. It floats between them, the red mixture inside shifting in ways that nature shouldn't be able to allow.

Morgana is delighted. And a little scared, if she's honest, because she's never actually been this _close_ to magic before. But she is no hypocrite: she's sworn to uphold the rights of the magical workers, and flinching away from a floating bottle won't help her cause.

It helps that the blonde is smiling at her, winsome and knowing. "We spend so much time in our lives taking things for granted," she says. "That we have to lift the bottle. That we have to own furniture, and arrange it as it's meant to be arranged. That we need these laws and these rules to contain our excesses. I don't think so."

The bottle tips over, filling Morgana's glass.

"Not that I don't believe in nobility," she continues, as if it is nothing, and Morgana can't stop watching. "But true nobility died a lonely death a long time ago. Now we've got Saturday morning morality. Don't do harm. Eat your vegetables. Produce less greenhouse gasses." The bottle settles down between them again, inert, as if nothing had happened. "Don't manipulate nature," she says, and her voice is a low hum that slides another octave downwards as she speaks.

"I'm not against use of magic, but abuse," Morgana begins, although fighting her seems strange. Some part of her won't stop closing in on Morgause, as if she's got a magic field all her own.

"But what _is_ abuse?" Morgause asks, her limber, elegant form settling backwards. Her shoulders, Morgana notes idly, are always set in a line. A strong, immobile one that speaks of sinew and dedication. "Our society has always taught us that if we simply stick to the 'order of things', avoid violence and stick to the straight and narrow, we will find ourselves one day living like kings and queens, that we will be knights, upholding a greater order."

She smiles, and taps the bottle. "But knights fight against the odds, don't they?" she asks. "Knights fight by their own morality. You can't impose a code. And so we're just struggling around in the refuse, pretending like we can stare up and reach the skies with our eyes full of _crap_."

The word sounds so alien coming from Morgause's mouth that it makes Morgana stare.

"It's the truth," she says simply, and tosses her hair. "Now it's your turn, Morgana."

Whatever is being asked of her, Morgana can't comprehend: so she stares at Morgause across the table for as long as it takes for her to come off as some kind of googly-eyed fool, trying to comprehend.

"I know you've got it in you," the other says, softly. "So let it loose. Let your magic speak. Defy the order of things, just this once."

Whatever it is she is getting at, Morgana cannot comprehend. She is not one of magic: she is a sympathiser, who occasionally has nightmares during her sleep, but that hardly lives up to the things she's heard they can do. So she laughs, embarrassed. "I don't," she starts. "You think?"

"I know." Morgause's form tends ever so carefully forward again, and she whispers some words. They drift, they carry, and the wine bottle tips a little again. There's something in the words, though, something old, something powerful.

The third time, Morgana speaks along, and the bottle tips again, harder, leaning and leaning and leaning until suddenly--

It comes apart, hitting the table hard, sending shards and wine splattering out in all directions and drenching the last of her dresses. There will be a large red stain there in the morning. Morgana doesn't care: there is fire in her veins, slowly leaking out again, but it was there. One second, two seconds, and it was _there_.

There are shards spread over the table, and wine like a spot of ink flowing out and it's beautiful.

"Your turn again," Morgana gasps. She's aware she's laughing again – but so is Morgause with her.

"Garçon," Morgause says, smirking at the bored-looking young man that tends to their table, "We'll have five bottles of wine to go. My friend and I have much to talk about."

By night's end, Morgana is juggling empty bottles of whisky in the air on the rotten, ruined parking lot outside the house, her boots the only shelter against a battlefield of broken glass. She doesn't hear her phone ringing until the last one arcs across the road and smashes into a thousand pieces on that poor, single lamppost.

She invites Arthur over to stay. She doesn't remember until the next morning, when she finds him curled up on the floor like a princess sleeping on a pea.

-=-

"I didn't expect you to last the night," says an intensely prying, annoying voice that pricks at the edge of Arthur's conscience like a bad hangover. He reaches for his blanket, but instead of warm fabric he finds something ragged and barely worthy of the name. A shiver goes through his body. His back hurts like someone stoned him all night.

When he finally forces his eyes open, there is very little light. No hangover, then. Had he passed out again? He was past his teens by now – surely he would've found the ability to call a fucking cab--

"There's a mattress two rooms down, you know."

It's sad that he can identify Morgana by the make of her overly expensive boots. To his surprise, there's mud on them, and when he squints up to find her frustratingly smug visage, her clothes look almost torn. Or at least as if she's slept in them for a few days.

"...Morgana," he says.

"Oh, good," she replies, dryly, "And here I thought you might have been hallucinating. Like I said, there's a mattress down two rooms. Did you just collapse on the spot?"

It's now that he realises his arm seems to be pressed into something moist, and he struggles up to his feet. There's a puddle of water barely a foot away from his head. He must have been too out of it the previous night to--

"Someone blew up my house," he says, wide-eyed, rubbing at his hair like he's missing something.

She paces around him, almost predatory but not quite. "You told me," she says, and adds, after a beat, "I think."

"Where are we?" he demands, now that he's detected some light coming in through the (shoddy) door so he can finally, blessedly see. "This isn't your house. This isn't even fit to store your _shoes_ in, Morgana. Please tell me you haven't gotten involved with-- with crack dealers, or something."

Because that would just be typical.

She shoots him a look like he's the dumbest thing she's ever seen. "This isn't a crack den, Arthur," she points out, "There would be pipes."

Needless to say, he returns her look with an equal one.

"Honestly, though, why are you still here?" she asks, "This isn't exactly your normal sort of place. You could have phoned Uther by now."

"So could you, if this is how you've been living." He knows the answer's evasive, but the last thing he wants to do is talk to his father about how his _fucking house_ just got blown up. Well, all right, he _should_ talk to Father: if simply to get the legal proceedings rolling.

He just doesn't relish the idea of having that particular conversation. Or any conversation, really. No doubt this would be considered a 'learning moment' about the importance of taking five bodyguards with you wherever you go, and the very thought exhausts Arthur. Worse still, it might start another witch hunt, and if he really is terribly honest with himself, he's not sure he's up for chasing down magic users again.

"I like it here," she says, with a defiant toss of her hair. "It's got character."

"It's got water leaking in through the ceiling," Arthur says, flatly, "Is that urine I smell?"

"The toilet doesn't work," Morgana informs him, and stalks past him, still effortlessly elegant in her stained shoes. She pushes open the door. "And be careful with the light."

He should... well, he should follow her, get some breakfast and phone Father and get the hell out of here. "What's wrong with the light?" he bellows after her.

"You'll find out!"

-=-

As it turns out, turning on the light means everything else in the house turns off, including the phone.

Arthur decides to take it as a sign.

Mostly because he's had so much to be frustrated about today, speaking to his father might well send him on a killing spree. With a chainsaw. In the woods.

It is very much possible Arthur is feeling a bit uncharitable today, but quite frankly, he's allowed to.

-=-

"Well, I think we're stuck with Miss Pouty for another day," Morgana mutters, scrambling around the bathroom for something to use against her pounding headache. "Typical daddy issues. He'll stay here and complain and as soon as Uther feels he's suffered enough, he'll call Arthur back to heel. And he'll come running. Like he always does."

Morgause has her perch by the doorway. She shrugs. "He can stay as long as he wishes," she says, serenely, "It might teach him a few things he might have forgotten along the way. He seems... high strung." A pause. "A knock in the head might do him good."

"That's what I keep saying."

As always, Morgause walks like she's gliding, picking up a toothbrush on her way past Morgana. "You spend a lot of time talking about your brother," she notes. "And your father."

"He's not my father," she says, automatically. "He will never be my father. My father died in a company accident when I was ten, and I guess Uther felt responsible." Ten years ago, her voice had not been this bitter, but after over a decade of Uther, she's lost her kindest edge. "He's too scared to let anything out of his control for long. Arthur lets him dictate his life. I won't."

She sits down on the edge of the bath and stretches her legs. She'd never realised how confining her old dresses could be. Her knee flexes. Perhaps it's finally having a good night's rest, too, that's leaving its mark.

"What about your mother?" Morgause asks, squeezing some toothpaste out onto her brush.

Morgana's shoulders shrug. "I never knew her," she admits. "She left my father when I was still too young to remember. It was him and me. And then it was me, Arthur, and Uther." She spits out the last name, shaking her head. "He has such a narrow view of things."

"Our fathers have always dictated what is good and what is evil," Morgause comments. "While our mothers showed us how to temper and nuance our lives. You have to ask yourself: when your humanity leaves you, and God is all you have, what do we become?" She's silenced by her own toothbrush, and there's something strangely comforting, almost domestic about talking philosophy with another woman while going through your morning cleaning rituals.

The headache isn't quite waning, but Morgana can finally pretend that it is. "Slaves to other people's prejudices," she says, bitterly. "Forced to enforce their hate and smile our way through it. God, I wish I could march in there right now and show him my magic. That would give him a shock."

A mixture of spit and toothpaste gets spat out into the sink. "I think if I had to use my magic on anyone," Morgause says, thoughtfully, and rights herself. "It would be my mother. She looked God in the face and ran away from it."

Morgana looks up.

"Maybe it's time we made our own gods," says the blonde, shifting not a muscle. "Don't you think?"

-=-

Arthur is practically snarling. It's taken over fifty minutes for the phone to come back online, and he's about ready to put his hand through the sodden drywall and _walk_ the ten miles up to Pendragon Mansion.

However, the lights have now gone out, and the television is making a sad little noise that implies that in theory, it could be used, which means that by some bizarre twist of fate the phone should also be working.

So here is the scene: Arthur, glaring at the phone. Morgana, talking to someone – or herself, who even _knows_ \- off in the other room. The phone, patiently glaring back, and ringing.

Whoever is calling has either the most outrageous luck in the world, or the absolute worst, because Arthur is about ready to murder someone and it might as well be some poor, misguided telemarketer. He practically yanks the phone off the wall and holds it to his ear.

"...so I thought, what you were talking about, about the magic? I've been up all night trying that trick from that book you gave me, but I'm not sure it's working correctly and I could maybe... use your help-- just for a bit, of course--"

"Merlin," Arthur says. Countries on the other end of the Earth can hear his dubiousness. "What in the name of _God_? Are you _stalking_ me?"

"...What? No! I would never stalk-- you are just the vainest person on the planet, aren't you? I was just calling my _friend_ Morgause because-- well, I'm not sure my room is supposed to do this exactly."

Arthur hammers his forehead into the drywall. It is not as soft as he thought it would be.

"Supposed to do _what_."

There's a ragged breath on the other end of the phone that almost sounds like fear. Arthur squashes the irrational protective feeling in his chest. He barely even knows the guy.

"I think the walls are moving in on me."

"That's called _cabin fever_, Merlin," Arthur points out. See? Irrational impulses. He isn't about to rush across town because apparently Merlin is lonely and pathetic as well as stupid. "Go get yourself a girlfriend."

There is a beat. "I'm gay, actually."

"Lovely. Go get yourself a boyfriend before someone decides to strangle you to death." Arthur hasn't got a clue why Merlin seems to think that he's a decent substitute for-- well, for someone who actually _knows_ the twat. He also doesn't know why he feels a nagging sense of guilt about this, about turning him down.

There's another short silence on the other end of the line. "Listen, Arthur, just-- whatever it is, I could really use your help. The walls are _really_ moving, and I--"

He puts the horn down on the table next to the phone. He could hang up, but that would take more effort than he's willing to put into one bloke's mad ramblings. Which is just it. Merlin seems well capable of talking away on the phone without any reaction whatsoever anyhow, so there's really no point in the cruelty of just hanging up on him, and that's that.

Arthur can try phoning his father again in a minute or fifteen. It will no doubt be an awkward conversation – in fact, he can already hear the quiet reprimands in his mind – but it might actually get the ball rolling again, as it were. Allow him to settle back into his life, refurnish his house, and unburden himself of whatever freak impulse is it that has him staring briefly at the phone before he walks back into the hallway.

Naturally, five minutes later, _someone_ turns on the tap again. Arthur decides to lay down on his mattress and at least pretend to get some sleep simply to spite Morgana. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow he'll phone.

-=-

In the morning, Morgana comes downstairs expecting Morgause, drying her hair out in the wind or trying to cook eggs over the broken stove. Instead, there is a familiar raven-haired boy sitting at the dinner table, idly fiddling with something that almost but not quite resembles cereal.

"Hi," he says, as soon as he notices her entering. His smile is big and bright and just a little bit silly. "Sorry. I thought, nobody's awake, so I'll have some breakfast, yeah?" A pause. "I mean, I can leave."

"Don't worry about it," she says, dismissively, and smiles herself. "I just hope you're being careful with the tap."

He waves his hand in her general direction. "I had to wrestle it for a bit," he admits, "I... think we might have knocked something out. Upstairs." His ears flush red. It's absolutely adorable. "I can pay for it--"

"Like I said," she says, smiling at him. He's obviously a dork, because he ducks his head a little and smiles nervously. "Don't worry about it. I'll be out in the next room seeing about the telly. Make yourself at home, there's plenty of room." She waves her hand at him. He'll get the gist of it in the end.

With a swish and a secret little frown, she departs from the room. The truth is, she _is_ vaguely confused as to why the boy is here. A guest of Arthur's, perhaps? Morgause's? For a moment, her thoughts meander towards Gwen's Lance for reasons beyond her understanding.

She looks to the phone, thinking, worrying her lip between her teeth. She thinks on it longer than she should, really, and in the end she averts her eyes, shakes her head. No.

It's just as well – as it turns out, the television has shorted out beyond repairing this time, at least without help.

-=-

The second person to stumble upon Merlin in the dining room is a fair bit less subtle about it, but to be fair, Arthur has never considered subtlety a virtue of any real worth. Not where it pertains to entrances and exits, two important weapons in anyone's networking repertoire. Being larger than life is of the essence, a talent to be sharpened to a fine edge, especially when you're 5'11'' and you run the risk of blending into the scenery otherwise. Posture is one of man's finest assets, and Arthur has it in _spades_.

A hot flare of surprise passes through him when he sets his eyes on Merlin. Why is he here, with his over-pronounced cheekbones and his obviously faked innocence? A memory spikes through his head, a second or two of last night, and something in his stomach flinches. He ignores it.

"What in the name of _god_ are you doing here?" Arthur asks-- or rather, demands. There isn't any space for uncertainty here.

Merlin stares at him, guileless. It takes him a few seconds to swallow down the mouthful of vaguely greenish cereal he's been eating, and he's wide-eyed all the way. "Morgause told me to make myself at home," he says, sheepishly, gesturing towards the exit.

Oh, he'll bet she did. He's had to listen to _someone_ going at it all night. He should've known Morgana and her lot would just see 'gay' as a challenge to master – or perhaps the little sod was just using that as an excuse to get close to the ladies in this household. He wouldn't put it past him.

If that isn't enough to put anyone off their sleep, finding some big-eared stalker lunatic eating their food _is_. (He ignores the fact that it isn't technically his food, because that hardly comes into it. It's... it's the principle of the matter, the fact that Merlin is-- is invading, like a spindly viking or something)

"Well, Morgause doesn't dictate everything in this house, despite what your experience may tell you," he says. Morgause: that has to be the person Morgana had been talking to yesterday in the bathroom. Probably the one making all the noise last night, too. (The _other_ one, his psyche tells him, helpfully. Sometimes, he wishes it were a little _less_ helpful)

Gay, his arse.

"I want you to clear off within the next fifteen minutes, am I making myself clear? There are people here who need to work." Perhaps not work-- work, but Arthur does intend to return to his rightful place soon enough, before something goes horribly wrong in his absence. His peace of mind is a vital asset for the company – he'll do well to manage it by getting rid of this distraction.

Within seconds, all of that innocence (fake, obviously, a clever trick of some kind) vacates Merlin's face to make room for affront and, inexplicably, hurt. "You really are a massive clot, aren't you?" he asks, rhetorically. "I'm sorry, will _your highness_ at least leave me the decency of my breakfast, or is that too much to ask for these days?!"

"What, you think taking a tumble in the hay with one of the _locals_ means you get to stay here and be rude to me?" Arthur asks him, perplexed. And... incensed. Incensed is a good word. It covers the load.

Merlin's spoon slams into his bowl. "I can take a hint, you know," he snaps. "Though that sounds like a lesson _you_ might be interested in learning. You know what-- You can keep your cereal! I'm leaving." In his rush to get up, he tips over his bowl and spills blueish cereal and rotten milk all over the dinner table. Some of it drips down from the edges onto the floor, adding to the lovely mixture of dust and mud already making itself at home there.

"Oh, very elegant of you," Arthur sneers, because he can't help himself. "What are you, a ballerina?" He should have never left that phone off the hook; should've known that the poor, awkward _bumpkin_ routine would get someone's attention eventually. Now this little twit is crowding into his space and his life like he belongs there. Christ. _Arthur_ doesn't even belong here, even though he's staying here anyway.

He has no idea what that thought is doing in the middle of a perfectly fine diatribe, so it just lays there like a dead fish.

"Well, _you_ would know," Merlin shoots back.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

The guy has the nerve to roll his eyes. "Nevermind," he says. "And to think, when I saw this house, I thought that maybe you weren't so shallow after all. Living in a place like this. I thought you might have been _down on your luck_, or something, or-- or-- in need of help--" He very nearly trails off, taking a deep breath before continuing. "But you're just _invading_ someone else's suffering, aren't you? Like-- Like." He makes a frustrated noise. "Like a _prat_."

He slams his fist on the table, much to Arthur's bemusement, and pushes away from the table like it's diseased.

Merlin's flounce out of the house, epic as it is, is only slightly hampered by the fact he slips and falls on a spill of milk on the floor. Arthur winds up forced to spend at least fifteen more minutes sticking plasters all over his face before he can properly kick the little mongrel out of the house, because there's something wrong about leaving someone bleeding all over your kitchen floor, even if they are a humongous imbecile.

The worst part is where Merlin actually looks a little bit _hopeful_ when he puts on the bandages, but Arthur is just going to chalk that up to the idea that the idiot is coming around to the fact that he should be grateful, dammit. Which is only just.

-=-

"I cannot believe," Arthur announces, storming into the living room some ten minutes later, "the kind of company your friend keeps, Morgana."

Morgana looks up from the television. It's still sparking a bit 'round the back, courtesy of not entirely sound magic, but at least it's working now. She's feeling a sense of pride she's never had in her life, and not even Arthur _bitching_ will snap her out of it. "What?" she asks, thinly amused, "Did someone break one of your toys?"

"She had sex with that twat _faker_ from Tuberculosis," he snaps, "And then actually let him _stay in_ and make himself at home in the house. I can't believe you let your roommates get away with that kind of thing-- hell, he's supposed to be gay!"

She's not sure what kind of point he's trying to make with that last one. "Don't be ridiculous, Arthur," she says, rising up to her feet. "He seemed like a good guy. For the two minutes I saw him. If he can spend more than five minutes with you, though, he's got to possess some redeeming qualities."

"He's irritating," Arthur supplies, sagging back in his seat. "Annoying. Loud. Sanctimonious. I could go on. Are the phones working again?"

Morgana rolls her eyes and gestures at the phone. "They're all yours to bellow at," she says, and goes to find Morgause. The last thing she needs is to spend her morning listening to Arthur yell, scuff his feet, and finally give in to Uther. He'll probably have cleared out of the house before the end of the afternoon, and she can resume her life as it is now.

She comes to the startling conclusion she finds it rather comfortable.

-=-

That day, Arthur finally phones. He's more reluctant than he thought he would be, and for different reasons. It's not his father's wrath he fears now, but the loss of his hard-won freedom, even if it's just from the sainted reign of his television set. There's just something different about the place, something more human, something he can't put his finger on-- but that's hardly an argument you can pose to Uther Pendragon, Industrial Heavyweight. He feels vaguely ashamed for considering it at all.

"Father, I'm staying," he says at last, "I never received guests at my old flat, it won't affect my work ethic--"

"You haven't been _in_ to work in several days," Uther corrects him, and he flinches despite himself. This is very true, and it occurs to him he should have realised he was selling the workers short earlier. There's any number of incompetents in the company that could be screwing up his branch right now, and he doesn't want to fault them. (Doesn't want his father to push more of those restrictions he's been talking about, but thinking so is close to treason, and so he doesn't dwell on the thought)

"I will be," he promises. "Father--"

"I mean it. I want you to leave that house. That's hardly acceptable lodgings for a son of mine. Morgana's rebellion is bad enough, but I expected at least a modicum of sense from _you_." Uther's tone is even, but the iron disappointment it blankets is evident even from this distance.

He bangs his head softly against the wall by the phone. "Father, I'm not moving," he says again. "I'm not, I'm not. It won't affect my work again, but I'm not going. Yet. Give me some time. I'm... simply attempting to process what has happened."

-=-

She's been out with Morgause for a while already, but it isn't until sundown that they make their way back to the old pub, talking about anything and warming their hands in the pockets of their coats.

"She used to bring me flowers," Morgana says, heels clicking against the tile as she walks. "Sit around the house, and we'd turn on the television and talk for a bit. Just... girl things, of course. We'd started talking about moving in together at some point. Not that I needed it – I've got plenty of cash," and that doesn't sound bitter at all, "But sometimes I have these nightmares, and she just thought..."

She bites her lip, then laughs, a shallow attempt. "Sorry," she says, "I must be boring you with all my meandering."

But Morgause has been listening, and she hasn't sped up her walk, hasn't tried to reach the pub a little bit quicker. "She went off to pursue the fairytale life," she says. "Put all the figurines in the right configuration and toss on all the locks. You can't blame yourself for abandoning her – that's the life everyone says we should have. Grey, and dull, and coloured by our partners."

Morgana nods, and pretends that is accurate, at least to her feelings. She pretends very hard that that is what happened, and that maybe Gwen just doesn't know what she's missing. "Anyway," she says, quickly, "I think we should try what we did last week. Again, I mean."

Morgause's laugh is less shallow. Melodic, almost, if Morgana permits herself to dip into the poetic. "I wasn't going to propose we sit there and braid each other's hair," she says.

It takes them about an hour to get back to where they were the last time. Quicker this time, and less desolate: they pick a spot just 'round the back to practice their craft. It's a gamble, because if anyone sees them, it might well be the end. Morgana finds that makes her fly, too. In fact, it makes her reckless.

When the first passer-by stops and stares, watches the lights flowing through the air, she just smiles. She knows it's cocky and wicked and more than a little inviting, and she takes pleasure in the fact that he does not call the police, or run. He stays.

Others join them.

It is only a matter of time before someone steps up and raises her hand and asks, tentatively, "Can you show me how to do that?"

And Morgana finds herself saying, "Show you? You can do it _to_ me," and extends her hand, and flashes.

Throughout the night, those with the gift fall into the same steps, the same dance. Spells flying through the air, changing shapes. It's an amateur's work yet, but it's beautiful. Some of them are clumsy, falling all over each other, so inexperienced that Morgana wouldn't even be surprised if even the lists at Pendragon Towers skipped over them. Others are practiced, powerful, and all the warier for it.

Those that don't have it, ask for it. Morgana and Morgause are kind: their fellows aren't guinea pigs, and they take good care to make sure that their lesser talented friends fly as high as they do. This is what it is supposed to be, Morgana thinks. This is what Uther is missing. This joy, this talent, this heart.

With enough magic, you could forget even the worst exists. You could paint the sky, and then what does your mortgage measure? Your TV license? Your best friend's wedding? Nothing at all.

-=-

It is the second time in two days that Arthur wakes up to find someone with big ears in his dining room eating all of his food. With a snarl heavy in the back of his throat, he practically tosses himself at his chair and glares across the table. If there's any luck for him in this world, Merlin will take the hint and make himself scarce.

"I am not," he says, with great aplomb, "_faking_ living in this house."

Merlin pauses and lowers his spoon. He's clearly trying to remember what conversation Arthur is referring to, which is ridiculous, because they've only spoken once in the past two days. The boy is just that inanely absent minded. "Right," he says, frowning.

"In fact, I'll be living here for a bit," Arthur tells him. It sounds a whole lot better said like that than barked through a broken phone while standing in the middle of a puddle of undefined substances. He's rather proud of that. "So whatever you were whining about, you are utterly wrong. And a horrible judge of character, I might add."

Merlin squints at him. "If this is about that thing yesterday," he ventures, "I already told you, I'm sorry about that. If you're trying to prove anything to me--"

Arthur stares straight back. "You did _not_," he says. "All you've done is sit here and _eat_ like... like you live here." It's not the strongest retort he's ever come up with, he'll cop to that, but he was out like a light most of the past night and his mind needs a few moments to boot itself up. As it were. It communicates the point, that's what he means.

Merlin's look turns decidedly funny. "You are really just the worst morning person _ever_, aren't you?" he says, and has the gall to sound amused about it. "Have some food. My mum always says a decent breakfast's good for the soul."

"Your mum is clearly insane," Arthur informs him, but it doesn't come out with as much strength as he was planning on. It's peculiar, how his tone seems to go this way or that without his permission in Merlin's presence. He's not sure how he feels about it.

It's the bowl of cereal that pays the price, as Merlin snorts, jostles the table, and leaves another splash of milk on the table. "My mum is a saint," he says, less offended than he should rightly be. Arthur really needs to be more vehement in his objections to the man's presence, but somehow he can't seem help himself. "And she _never_ had a temper in the morning."

"I do not," Arthur tells him, icily, "have a _temper_."

"Uh-huh."

"Eat your cereal," he says, and glares daggers.

The soggy piece of cereal that goes sailing through the air is the first, unwarranted assault, a bit like the bullet that once was aimed for Franz-Ferdinand. The results are certainly just as spectacular: when they're done and the kitchen is covered in milk and starch crumbs and Arthur's hair is decidedly less immaculate than it already was, Arthur has briefly forgotten the toe-curling conversation he had with his father just the previous day. It's no small feat.

It takes him effort to manhandle Merlin out the door that morning, but he takes some small satisfaction out of slamming it shut when he's done.

-=-

It's been seven days, and Arthur needs to get back to work. He would have gone earlier, he really would have, but somehow the idea doesn't appeal to him the way it used to. Thoughts of his people, thoughts of Uther's plans have been dancing idly and guiltily across his mind, but they are left to themselves without being acted upon. It's as if he's caught in a state of indecision, like he doesn't know whether to go left and right, and it's... paralysing. Instead, he's found himself avoiding the building on his jaunts into town – and the moment he realises he's doing that is the moment it becomes clear to him that the insanity really has to _stop_.

Being there, behind his desk, yelling at people... it's not the same. Somehow, the world has warped itself without his permission while he was gone. It's seeping into every action: he yells less, works less, drinks more coffee. By the time afternoon rolls along, his mood has infected the office to the point that when he picks up the phone, the employee on the other end actually seems to pause for a second, and asks, "Mr. Pendragon...?" as if he's not sure this is actually happening.

"Yes," he says, feeling... calm, somehow. That morning, the roof had partially caved in, sending more old, dingy rainwater down into the pipes and through the upstairs bedroom. Arthur'd had to move his mattress, and he'd voiced his issues so relentlessly to Morgana (and her trademarked refusal to listen to him) that he appears to have run out of the energy to do so again. About anything. "I said, what can I help you with?"

"...Are you feeling all right, sir?" Gawain asks, warily. "Did you contract some kind of disease? Do I need to phone your physician?"

He laughs. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "How long has it been since the last time you had some time off?"

There is a very long pause on the other end of the line.

"... Ten months, sir."

"I won't need you today," Arthur decides, and turns his chair out so he can face the window. "Go see those kids of yours, or something. Play a ball game. That kind of thing. That's what you do, right?"

"Er," says Gawain, who promptly breaks the connection.

That, too, is something Arthur easily shrugs off. It isn't that he's in a good mood – he's fairly sure those are supposed to feel better. Or feel like something, at least. It's more a sort of lack of weight, the sinking, elevating revelation that nothing he does now really matters, not in the face of his father's iron grip, not in the face of his broken house.

-=-

When Arthur comes home, the water is leaking down into the upstairs bath (and some buckets), and there's some bloke standing on his porch. He has long, dark hair, and a vaguely Hispanic countenance that really is too pretty to be altogether healthy. Arthur blinks at him. He does not blink back.

"And who are _you_, then?" he asks, setting down his briefcase to get a better look. It's not often you find living statues outside your home, unless you're the King of England, and Uther hasn't quite gotten that pretentious.

Yet.

The movement gets the man to respond, at least. Which is a good thing: the last thing Arthur needs is for Morgana to start a wax museum outside their lovely hovel.

"Lancelot," he provides, hesitant, as if giving his name is like breaking the law.

Arthur blinks again.

"Lance... a lot," he says, dubiously, and picks up his briefcase again. "All right then."

"Morgause told me to come here," Lance-a-lot (the porn star, his mind agreeably comments) says, his marble stance crumbling some more. "You're... one of hers, then."

"Not quite," says Arthur, and stares some more. An impulse strikes him straight across the chest. Lancelot is so still, trying so hard to be a monument, or a column, or something. It only makes sense then to smack him once just to see how he'll react, see if he can startle him. Lancelot topples rather spectacularly then, the illusion fully broken. He nearly takes a tumble off the porch.

Arthur snorts, then. He leaves Lancelot to scramble back up unto his feet, and enters the house. Once there, he shuts the door and blinks a third (or fourth, or fifth; it's hard to keep track) time and opens the door a crack to see if the man is still standing there. He is.

Huh.

-=-

"Who's that standing outside our house?" Morgana asks, incredulously, and throws her bag at the broken couch Arthur's lounging on. "Are you actually taking your _staff_ home with you now? What, are you aspiring to have a personal valet?"

"That's Lancelot," is Arthur's only response. The useless git. _Lancelot_. Morgana can't think of anyone called 'Lance' who hasn't been somehow disappointing. "Toss him some bread if you're worried."

"I'm not worried about him, I'm wondering why you're bringing attractive gentleman callers home to lurk outside our door," Morgana complains. It honestly doesn't make any sense, but then again, Arthur has rarely been a paragon of logic. Predictable, yes, but logical, not as much.

Arthur shifts his head slightly. "Try not to be too jealous," he says. And stills for a moment, peering at something over her shoulder. "_She's_ in a rush."

Morgana follows the path of his gaze, but there's nothing there anymore, although now that she's paying attention she can hear the footsteps. "I can't believe you're still _here_," she says, changing the subject. "I always thought that if we took your comfortable blankets and pillows away from you you'd curl up into a ball and die of neglect within a few days."

"Or too eager," Arthur says, laconic and remaining utterly _useless_.

She turns on her heel and storms into the kitchen. They're thinking about holding another magic night tonight, in the same place at roughly the same time. Something in her veins is singing again, calling to her. It's power, she knows, and it's so much more alive than anything she's ever done in her life.

Feeling bohemian, she opens up the window and tosses her mobile out the window. She hasn't checked the voice mail for a week, and it's likely to be full of Uther ranting about her absence. Might as well make it official.

"Feels cathartic, doesn't it?"

It's Morgause's voice that drifts gentle but strong across her, and she can't help but smile.

"Arthur thought you were hurrying out," she says, turning around. "What are we doing today?" We, it is: we, me-and-her, it seems to be working. It's a better me-and-her than she used to have. It's more... solid. More driven. More with cause, even without.

"Hazing newcomers," Morgause replies, ethereally. Newcomers? The confusion must be evident on her face, because a moment later, she's saying, "You must have caught our new guest out on the porch."

"Arthur's friend," she says, blinking. The dark-haired man who'd stood there like a statue all morning. "I've seen him before. I was wondering what he's doing here with us." It's as close to a question as she'll get on the topic.

Morgause makes her way to the sink, hitting the tap and letting the cold, slightly murky water run over her hands. "He might be joining us," she says. "If he's still here in three days. Hand me the towel?"

Morgana's own fingers find the cloth, working flawlessly on instruction. She should have more questions, she knows, but there's always been something trustworthy about Morgause and it doesn't feel like she needs them.

"As for you and me," says the blonde, wiping her hands off with the dirty towel, "We're going to be making soap."

"Soap."

Morgana hopes the statement doesn't sound as dubious as she feels about it: her trust is momentarily jarred by incredulity. She knows what Morgause does for a living, but it has never occurred to her she did anything other than passing it on, at the end of the day.

"Yes," Morgause says, with a radiant smile, "Soap."

-=-

"You can't be serious."

They are outside a clinic.

They are outside a _liposuction clinic_.

There are limits even to Morgana's rebellious faith. The stretch of barbed-wire fence in front of them is a very good indication of where those limits lie, exactly.

"In order to make anything, first you need the base components," Morgause says, and her Zen would be very inspiring if it wasn't so oddly misplaced right now. The back of the clinic smells like a combination of urine and scents that Morgana would rather not think about, and while she _is_ dressed in the most raggedy of her dresses, there is still bile in her throat when she thinks about venturing in.

The corners of Morgause's mouth tug up. "Don't worry," she says, soothingly, "I'll be getting the fat. You merely need to catch the bags as they come down."

"Is there any particular reason why we need to raid some dime store charnel house?" Morgana demands, her eyes flicking back to the containers. They really do reek, even at a distance. "Surely there's another way to get some fat!"

"Human fat is the best base for soap," Morgause says. She's already boosting herself up and over the fence at the place where the barbed wire is flimsiest. "You cook it. Then you take this wonderful substance called lye-- wrought from hardwood ashes. Combined, we get soap." She pauses. "Imagine how the Aztecs found out about that." The curls of her blonde hair vanish behind the containers.

Morgana remains dubious, and paranoid, at that. What if someone shows up? Her eyes skim over the filthy edges of the alleyway. She fidgets with her dress, already streaked with a dark brown she'd rather not talk about. Morgause gets her into the strangest places.

And that's about as far as her thoughts get.

The whole situation is quite ignoble, really.

One minute, she's standing there with her head held high, watching for the cops. The next, there is a large bag of moving, shifting-- _euch_ being dropped all over her, and she has to scramble to keep herself balanced.

"Look out below!" Morgause calls.

Exactly on time, that.

Morgana glares, but obediently slips back into position, taking bag after bag of disgusting liquid _fat_ yanked from some old woman's bottom.

It goes well enough until the last one. The last one breaks.

It is possibly the most horrible thing she has ever done. _But that's manual labour_, she tells herself, and stinking of bodily fluids she still manages to strut away with dignity in the end.

Or her best attempt at doing so. It is hard to tell the difference when your hair feels like a dish rag.

-=-

Once back home, Morgause talks her through the process of making soap. (She's terribly relieved that Arthur seems more concerned with his friend outside on the porch, because she's fairly certain that if he saw her like this, she wouldn't hear the end of it. And then she'd have to crush him under her heel, and no one wanted things to get out of hand.)

It is both complicated and simple at the same time, distilling the lye and getting everything into order. As they work, Morgause tells her about the other ways such products can be used: about the explosive qualities of soap, especially if you add a little dash of magic.

But Morgause adds a 'little dash' of magic to everything, as it turns out.

"Hold your hands over it," she instructs, taking Morgana's wrists and guiding her palms into place. "Now repeat after me."

The incantation is a complicated one, and the first couple of times, Morgana stumbles over the words. Calling on the power isn't as hard now as it once was, but it still takes effort. She is assured that the magic will simply enhance the potency of the soap – yet the spell pulls at something in her.

" ...it hurts a bit," she murmurs, suddenly.

A spike of something seems to be lancing through her hands repeatedly, as if the lye itself is sneaking up and burning through her palms.

"I want to stop."

"Just hold it a little longer," Morgause replies, and the grip of her fingers on Morgana's wrists tightens. "Just a little longer. Keep repeating after me--"

The second burst is more painful. It makes her scream and jerk and pull away. "I don't want to," she says, "I don't want to, Morgause, that has to be enough--"

"Hold on." By now, her grip has become as painful as the thrumming sense of wrongness that pulses through Morgana's hands. She can't pull away now, can't let go, and even if her voice isn't calling out the words to the spell any longer, _Morgause's_ is.

The burn becomes worse, unbearable-- she reaches for anything, anyone in her thoughts to calm her. Take her away from this, let it go, "Please, please--"

"Stop it!"

There is compassion in Morgause's eyes, yes, but also a sense of resignation. It's the scariest thing Morgana has ever encountered, and she includes the pain she's feeling right now in that.

"Listen to me. Magic isn't a toy. It's not a figurine you get from a Happy Meal. It hurts. It burns. We have been persecuted for centuries for what we can do. _Feel_ what you can do, Morgana. Stay here with me."

The scream is back on the tip of her tongue, and she can distantly hear herself chanting, begging again.

That sense, that feeling is something unknowable, something that shoots up now from her hand into her mind. Burning, endless burn, and power beyond what she knows, beyond what she can take, roaring up and up and up until she's mad with it--

"Have to stay here have to stay here have to stay here."

She can make out the words coming from her own throat, but barely.

"Just _feel_ it," Morgause hisses, and then it's everywhere, flames, gold, liquid _everything_ and it is too much. It is too much. It is too much.

She is only distantly aware of the gentle arm that catches her head before the rest of her body touches the floor, gentle and firm. She is more aware of the sound of her own breathing, hoarse and ragged, and the tremble in her hand. She doesn't notice, yet, the blue lines that make up an intricate web over the back of her hand, stretching out and twining into the bumps of her own arteries.

The gold doesn't leave her vision for a long, long time.

-=-

"You're still here, then."

Arthur doesn't sound anywhere near impressed, and that would be because he isn't. This _cock_ has been here for nearly a full day now, out in the burning sun, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and some shorts. Arthur _does_ have to admit that it takes a lot of courage to make that much of a tit out of yourself, but it doesn't say a great deal about one's brains.

"I think it's time you clear off."

Lancelot does not respond in the slightest-- well. That's not entirely true.

Arthur has noticed the slight tightening of his jaw. He found out yesterday just how unmovable the guy really isn't. It makes him smirk like a shark. "Come on, Lancelot," he says, drawling out the name. "Haven't you got anywhere better to be?"

"I am not to move," says the guy, which is the first thing he's said since their last conversation. So to speak.

Right.

See, normally Arthur isn't much the bullying sort (or at least he'd like to think he grew out of that – you have to excuse childhood errors after some time), but the simple truth is that this house does something to him. He keeps having these dreams, for one. They're fuzzy, little echoes of themselves, but they leave Arthur feeling...

Confused.

There are limbs, and desperate noises; a sense of pleasure and sensation that he places rather better than he'd admit aloud. They are more frequent lately, and more vivid – and waking up with your face in a splash of unidentifiable liquid after isn't exactly much of a help in terms of managing one's mood.

Then there's Merlin's ubiquitous presence, Morgana, and the elusive Morgause, and the bit where his father has already twice phoned him at work, frothing at the mouth about insurance in a fashion Arthur can barely keep track of. All of it adds up. All of it comes together, all of it _feeds_ something, that apathy edged with callousness that he's only just managed to put a name to.

One thing's for sure: he has a lot of excess energy to burn off.

That's his only excuse for his next action, which is to take the broom he'd carried out side and smack Lance with it, hard, until he's gasping for air. A moment later, there is a fist flying at him, and something in Arthur's blood screams at him. Screams, and screams, until the rest of the world fades and the heavy reserves of apathy have been filled up with something else entirely.

-=-

A roll of none-too-sanitary bandages hits the desk in front of Arthur. He looks up, through his half-shut eye and past the scab on his nose, and finds Morgana standing there.

"Fancy seeing you here," he croaks, pushing himself up from the desk into some semblance of _upright_.

"You know you've got the entire floor dodging your office," she says, matter-of-factly. Arthur's eyes flick down along her length as she sits down, and he notes her hand, twisted like something isn't quite right with it. Morgana's eyebrows, elegant and demanding, slide up to inform him that his curiosity isn't required.

Arthur shrugs a shoulder. "Father always said a little fear was good for them," he grunts, the bruises still a strain on his ribs. "Might as well get started early. Where were you last night?"

"Out," she says, and watches him critically. "You haven't banged up anything else, have you?"

"No," he says, and scowls back at her. She can't keep him from worrying and then do so herself: it's unfair, and unjust. He's just about to tell her so when the phone rings.

Instead, he gives her the evil eye as he picks it up.

"_Arthur?_"

The voice on the other end is choked, as if with tears, and very familiar. The scowl slides away from Arthur's features. "Gwen?" he asks, and ignores how Morgana sits up despite herself. "What's wrong?"

-=-

It feels like an hour. Like a day. Like weeks, all ticking together as Morgana's brother's expression creases more and more and she's left wanting to tear the phone out of his hands. To shout down it. To ask why Gwen hasn't phoned her, but Arthur, Arthur who she harbored a crush on for years that never became anything, because Arthur is a numbskull who doesn't know how to stick his neck out for a good thing.

"It's for you," he says, eventually, and offers her the receiver.

"Of course it is," she says, with a haughty arrogance she doesn't feel. Takes the phone like a lifeline. "Gwen?"

"_He's gone_," says the sobby little voice on the other end of the line. "_I haven't seen him in three days now._"

Morgana's elegant fingers dig further into the receiver. She ignores the upshot of pain that soars through the scar on her hand, the one she knows Arthur is watching. (He can keep watching, and wondering, for all she cares. It's none of his business) "Gwen, love," she says, softly, "Please explain."

"_It's Lance_," Gwen explains, biting down on what sounds like a fresh batch of tears. It makes Morgana feel perilously selfish for all of a few split seconds. "_He's been absent lately. I mean... not like not there with his head, just-- not there. I know he hasn't been-- I think he hasn't been cheating, he hasn't-- oh god, what if he has?_"

"I'll bite his head off," Morgana says. She means it. "Oh, Gwen. When did this start?"

"_I just-- I couldn't reach you, you'd been away, and he kept leaving,_" Gwen says, and it's not an answer to her question but it might as well be. "_Almost every night by the end, like clockwork. Now he's missing. I've called the police, but if he's gone of his own free will--_"

Morgana hates Lance. She's never _met_ the man, knows only his first name, but she's hated him from the first moment Gwen came home with tales on her lips of the boy she'd just met. She could never make herself meet him – she was always too busy, and then by the time she couldn't, anymore, Gwen was so far away it would feel like another betrayal entirely.

She hates Lance doubly now. She shoots Arthur's injuries a darkened look – and hopes he roughed up _his_ Lance just as hard. "Everything will be okay, Gwen. I promise."

"_Can I see you?_" she asks. "_Tonight?_"

Tonight was going to be another club meeting. Morgause will be annoyed if she doesn't show up.

"Yes," she says, and hates the little spark of hope in her heart, nestled in the middle of all of that hatred.

"Are you two done with your star-crossed lovers routine?" Arthur asks, because he's an arse and Morgana can't _believe_ they're supposed to be siblings.

She throws a glass of water in his face.

 

-=-

It is another one of those evenings and another one of those dreams. Arthur, who has no intentions of sticking around while Morgana worries herself into a frenzy about Gwen (not that she'd admit that's what she was doing, but he _knows_) decides to turn in for an early nap. On his dingy mattress. Which is starting to be soaked in water.

Some days, he doesn't remember exactly why he chose to stay here. Some nebulous sense of freedom, yes, and an unwillingness to let go of it: he fought his father over it, and for the first time in his life, he won. So maybe it's a symbol, or something equally psychological. He's sure Morgana would have an opinion on it, but introspection was never Arthur's most beloved hobby.

Anyway, his head is pressed close to the mattress and there's a large stain forming on his boxers, but he pays it no attention. Or tries to. It's hard to ignore. Somewhere between the ignoring and the not-ignoring, his mind runs off and the darkness settles in.

He dreams:

white skin  
loud moans  
creaking under his back  
his elbows skimming into the mattress  
someone's grinning

… unevenly.

When he wakes up, Merlin is putting flowers into one of Morgana's broken vases, and Arthur blinks at him as he says, conversationally, "Y'know you've got some bloke standing on your doorstep?"

Psychology be damned. Arthur isn't sure when this became his life, and even less so whether he even wants to know.

 

-=-

But rewind and switch points of view.

There is a girl, and there is another girl, and one and one still make two: so there are two girls, sitting at a table, talking.

"I don't know," says Gwen, staring into her glass of classy yet affordable wine, "Things were going really well, we were all set for the engagement, and then..."

Morgana reaches over and rubs soothingly over her knuckles. "He's a cunt," she says, "You deserve better than this." It's not strictly the _most_ soothing thing she can say, and she wonders vaguely if her own sense of tact wound up in whatever drain Arthur's did at birth.

Gwen just chokes on a laugh. "You've never even _met_ him," she says. "I was going to call you, you know. If you're going to be my maid of honour, you should at least _meet_ my groom..."

She trails off suddenly, as if she's only just realised what she was saying. Morgana wants to give her a hug. Morgana is also checking her watch for reasons beyond herself. She feels oddly torn in two, as if whatever she says will send her life spinning off into one of two directions.

There's a sweet girl sitting in front of her, kind as anything. There could be worse: nice words, reassuring words, _he'll turn up again, it'll be fine, Gwen._ Instead, she says: "I don't need to _meet_ him to know so," and, "I can't believe someone would just up and _abandon_ you, that's just... just gauche," but if she's looking to stir up anger in her friend it isn't working.

"You're probably right," Gwen says, instead. "I-- It was stupid, really. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bugged you about this, I know you've been busy lately – can't even reach your cell you must be that occupied – I mean, I know--"

"It's fine, Gwen," Morgana replies.

"It's stupid," says Gwen, and sinks forward onto the table. Morgana is struck by her inability to help her friend, but also her reluctance to do so, at least in the way that it's right. Something is gnawing at her, pointing to her that this isn't how it's supposed to _be_.

"I'll get the bill," she says. Pats Gwen's hand again. "And then we'll go buy you a good Pinot Noir and have you in bed by ten, yeah?"

At least that gets her a grateful smile, but it doesn't do as much as it used to, and she finds that she just doesn't know.

By ten, Gwen is indeed roaring drunk, and hanging off of Morgana's arm like it's her only lifeline. _The way it should be_, says one part, _This is wrong_, says the other, and in-between all she really knows is that she should get this girl into bed.

Possibly with a glass of water and a painkiller; Morgana takes her alcohol far better than Gwen does, and in this instance it's a boon, because it means she can put the girl in a cab without much difficulty.

"I should've known," Gwen says, her head flopping against the side of the car. "I let my heart get the best of me. He's just... different. He always was."

Yes, Morgana remembers the early days: when the thought of Gwen going off with some lad was still a matter of teasing and laughter, when not running into the two of them while they were off together was still a matter of accident and not of habit. Gwen would come home and mess with the flowers and giggle about the last thing Lance had done, and really, he would be sort of bad for her, maybe she should just lay off but he was so amazing...

She helps Gwen up the stairs to her flat, keeping a firm grip on her arm. "He'll either come back or he won't," she says, "Either way, you're better than this. You've been with _me_ since we were girls, and _I_ haven't gone anywhere."

Gwen's side hits the doorway and she laughs shallowly. "I always knew I'd have _you_ on loan," she whispers. "But yeah, yeah you have."

And then she doesn't say much at all, because she's dashing into the bathroom and puking her guts out. Morgana holds her hair back, like she hasn't done in quite some time, but her eyes are travelling back to the clock and she knows where she'll be tonight.

 

-=-

"You're late," says Morgause, impassively. The crowd in front of them is restless, eager to start. Some of them are already glowing, their eyes blazing in anticipation. One or two people already have bruises. A third has a sudden and inexplicable blue streak across their forehead.

"I'm sorry," Morgana says, and is acutely aware that she's slurring. Carefully, she tries to sound out the rest of her words. "I was elsewhere. Pontificating. With a friend."

Morgause shakes her head. "We were just talking about our homework assignments," she says, and Morgana finds herself squinting in an attempt to parse that thought. "Last week, you all found someone to use some magic on. Be it spells of your own making, or potions taken from your friends," she says, and her attention falls suddenly and thoroughly away from Morgana.

Once again, she is a spectator in her own life, but at least it doesn't feel _wrong_ any longer, as if she's misplaced something that she can't get back.

"And I see a lot of new faces," Morgause continues, "Which means you have been breaking our rules." Her eyes are kind, however, and no one feels the need to back off from her presence. "Remember that our first rule is not to speak of this. So is our second."

A hushed mumble passes through the crowd, but her poise is the same it always is.

"Enough," she says. "Find an opponent of your choosing. Whether you are both magic, both not, or your company is mixed: these things do not matter, as long as none of you intervene in each other's matches. If someone says stop, or taps out, you will end it. No enduring hexes or spells. Everyone leaves here looking normal. You can collect this week's homework assignment at the door. Begin."

A man with a heavily scarred face takes the first position. A wizard, Morgana knows, and his opponent is a grim older man who hasn't managed a spell in his life. There are sensations involved in this act that you cannot fathom until you've been a part of it: soon they are scrabbling at each other, one tearing with fingernails, the other with reds and yellows, juggling arcs of magic.

She watches the whole way through, and during the second, and the third. Sometimes, the room scorches with fire, other times, the ice falls cold from the ceiling. The power is palpable, it's better than a high, better than the alcohol she has been drinking with Gwen tonight.

It's enough to make her forget that she didn't know until now about these 'homework assignments' – enough to make her turn a blind eye yet again, and seek out Morgause's gaze across the room. Her smile is proud, freeing.

Morgana will not be late again. This, she knows.

 

-=-

When she gets home, Lancelot is still standing by the door, looking sheepish and not at all like a man who hasn't left the area in about two days. Three? She has trouble keeping track of the time when all the days seem strung together, every moment just a stretch between meetings and Morgause and back again.

She doesn't even bother to catch his eye, but rather barges straight on in. Apparently she makes less noise than she thought, because the conversation drifting in from the other room does not cease in the slightest.

"...some bloke standing on your doorstep?"

"Of course I do. What, don't you think I know what goes on in my own house?"

"It's technically Morgause's house, isn't it?"

"Shut up."

"Anyway, I think he's nice."

"Of course you do. You'd probably make friends with the rats in the basement."

"I had a friend who kept rats."

"Merlin..."

"They were really nice! Well, up until Will gave me one for my birthday and it crawled down the back of my shirt and into my underwear."

"Thank you for that mental image."

"I'm just saying, he's not that bad. I talked to him for a bit. Nothing like a rat."

"You mean he's not climbing into your underwear."

"No, I just mean he's-- he's sort of brilliant, really, he has all of these stories--"

"I think that's quite enough, Merlin."

She could listen in more, but the door's slamming shut behind her and that's the kind of thing that'll garner your attention. She spins around, and finds Morgause standing there, Lancelot at her side. They are speaking softly, almost distantly, and Lancelot nods.

Neither of them are paying attention to Morgana, a fact she finds utterly galling.

-=-

"So you've met Lancelot," Morgana says, gesturing at the bloke at her side and utterly, _utterly_ interrupting the important discussion Arthur was having with Merlin in regards to... well, the bloke in question. Shut up. That doesn't mean that Morgana is _welcome_. "He's going to be staying with us."

Arthur shoots her an incredulous look. "What is this?" he asks, "A zoo?" Beat. "No offence, mate."

"None taken," Lancelot says, and smiles like someone just stuck some speed up his arse. It is definitely yet another uncharitable day in Arthur's kingdom, but he'll be damned if he starts censoring his own thoughts _now_.

"What it is is _not your place_," Morgana says. Her glare could kill cows. Bulls. Her glare could slaughter and fillet bulls and probably set them on fire, too. Arthur can do her one better. "So you're going to be hospitable about it."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm perfectly hospitable," he says, "Do yank that heel out of your arse. And for that matter--"

His rant is interrupted by Lance-a-bloody-lot, who scrapes his throat and goes, "I don't mean to be a point of contention between you. I'll stay out of your way." He holds his hands up in a clear gesture of surrender, and begins to back away. But that's not what Arthur is after, and he's not going to let Lance get away with it.

"No, you can stay," he says, pointedly. "We can use a bit more testosterone in here to balance out all the flouncing about, you're exactly right." He smiles at Morgana in the least kindly way possible. She bristles at him, but it's fairly clear to everyone there's little she can do.

Lancelot dithers, his gaze passing from one to the other. Obviously, he realises this is an argument he doesn't want to be a part of, but Arthur doesn't really care.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," he continues, using the silence while he's got it, "I believe I'm going to go have a _nap_."

"Oh, don't be a child," Morgana snipes after him, but he's already moving so he can press down on his mental 'mute' button. It works well enough, turns her annoyed rantings into a bit of background noise. It's almost soothing, in its own fashion.

The truth is, he isn't going for a nap. He's looking for Merlin, who buggered off somewhere in the middle of the conversation. He finds the guy sitting in one of the least wet rooms in the house, fiddling with his shirt. "It took me five minutes to find you," Arthur complains. "What, were you _hiding_ from me?"

"Of course not," Merlin bites back. "Not everything is about you, you know." That's an odd statement if Arthur's ever heard one, so he wiggles his eyebrows at the idiot before taking a seat at his side. He sinks down against the wood, and--

All right, it still is quite damp in here. "Probably not, but most things worth experiencing are," he says, and gives Merlin a little nudge with his shoulder. Trying to coax the lad out of his shell a bit, because the dreariness and the brooding is possibly even more irritating than the smiling. Honest to God – it's like he's got a _degree_ in all the various ways one can be intolerable.

"She's really something, isn't she?" Merlin asks, fidgeting with his fingers next. Poking and prodding and just generally trying to be distracting. He's wise to it.

But there's talking about him, and then there's talking about _Morgana_. The latter is less interesting, in Arthur's opinion, but Morgana has her assets and Merlin is, despite his attempts to prove the otherwise, still just a red-blooded male. Who pretends to be gay to strangers. Probably just for cases like this. "I suppose she is," Arthur says, lightly, "If you're into man-eating shrews. Not that she doesn't have her good sides, but she's... Complicated."

Merlin snorts softly. "That's one way of putting it," he says, but at least he doesn't sound so downright miserable any longer. "How do you two know each other?"

The question isn't unprecedented, and Arthur supposes he should've seen it coming. "Her parents were family friends," he starts, "Father took her in when she found herself without them. Honouring the old connections." He slants a quick look at Merlin, finds those blue eyes set on him. "I think he also missed having a female presence in the house," he says, finally, although he isn't sure why.

But Merlin just nods. "Where's your mother, then?" he asks, tentatively, but oddly genuine. Arthur isn't sure what to _do_ with that besides shift in place, trying to find his footing again.

"She died," he says. "My birth had... complications. I didn't-- She went before I could open my eyes for the first time. Just like that. The doctors tried to save her life, I think they even called in a medical wizard, but nothing could be done. She just-- passed."

"Do you miss her?" It's not just genuine, it's earnest, too, and it keeps Arthur from dismissing the question right out of hand. Like he should. He's already said too much.

"I don't--" He folds his hands, rubs his thumbs together. "I don't, really, I just-- wish I'd had something _to_ miss." He glances up. "Is that so stupid?"

A hand crawls up against his shoulder and settles there, just above his flank. He thinks briefly about shrugging it off, but there's warmth seeping in through his shirt now, a nice counterpoint to the moisture seeping in through his trousers. "Of course not," Merlin says. "That's-- no wonder you're so attached to Morgause."

"You mean Morgana," Arthur says, blinking. "I've only known Morgause for a short while. Kind of her to put her up, though."

Merlin regards him with a scrutinizing look that makes him feel like he's under a microscope all of a sudden. He doesn't like it. "Right, Morgana," he says. Arthur attempts to pull away from that hand, uncomfortable now. Unfortunately, Merlin doesn't seem intent on obliging. "Sorry if I'm putting you off," he continues. "I've just never known my father either. I know how it feels."

It's Arthur's turn to say, "Right," but somehow the discomfort of the moment has broken, and that sense of-- warmth has seeped slowly back in. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Merlin admits, "He just... went."

Arthur leans into his hand, lets him speak.

-=-

This time, when he sleeps, there are no pale limbs or deep groans going around. He dreams of aching muscles instead, moving endlessly, and wet feet: a ship perhaps, with the beds practically nailed to the walls, filthy and dank and any other number of unpleasantries.

He also dreams of the garden:

dark and covered in debris  
a single spotlight up at the sky  
and a number of men, still

someone is smiling fondly  
taking his hand with great care  
and the scent of fresh soap

When he blinks awake, he can hear a rat skittering over the floor, and there's a drip of water landing on his forehead. "Oh, for the love of--!"

He scrambles up onto his feet. It's dark outside now, and he hasn't a clue how long he's slept, except that it must have been at least ten hours. "Why didn't anyone wake me?!" he hollers down the hallway – and encounters only Lancelot, staring at him owlishly with a ratty towel in hand.

"You were sleeping," Lancelot says, quite sensibly. "I didn't wish to disturb."

"What is it with you?" Arthur asks him, lifting his chin to catch his attention. He narrows his eyes at Lance, attempts to make sense of him. He's quickly become a part of the scenery, but that doesn't mean Arthur doesn't have _questions_ percolating in his head. Who wouldn't? "Tell me, Lancelot. Why spend all that time lining up just to live in this rat-infested scumhole of a place? Looking for a charity case, perhaps?"

There is a silence that strains: Lancelot looks like a deer caught in headlights. "I... can't say, sir," he says, tentatively. "Did you want the bath?"

He really is remarkably earnest. Almost makes a man think, really, if one was thusly inclined.

"No, I did not want the bath," Arthur says, snottily (because he can, and damn it if he's going to let Lancelot's earnesty get to him – even if he can appreciate it, somehow, oddly). "I just asked you a question. What's with all of this evasive nonsense?"

"I can't say," Lancelot repeats, enunciating clearly, "Sir." His towel winds up flung over his shoulder. "Can I get you a beer, then? You must be thirsty."

Arthur thinks: it is bloody morning.

Arthur thinks: wait, it's not and it's dark out.

Arthur thinks: oh, to hell with it, rolls his eyes and brushes past Lancelot. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he asks. "You know I have plenty of other things to do." Perhaps if he plies the man with alcohol, he can get a straight answer. There hasn't been a surplus of those to go around.

"Of course," Lancelot says, and with a bow – a fucking _bow_ he trails after Arthur, downstairs and into the kitchen. It's the strangest thing that's ever happened to him, but he's set on taking it in stride. If Morgana can, so can he, goddammit.

He speaks a quick, distracted word of greeting to Morgause as he passes her by in the hallway, and is remarkably unsurprised when a glance at the window shows that there's two more men standing on his doorstep, silent and unmoving.

Merlin isn't there that morning, but he's there the next. He's got a wrapped package of clothes in his arms, and he doesn't explain until Arthur stares at him for more than a few minutes. "I noticed you didn't have a washer," he explains, "So I thought I'd throw some of your shirts in with mine."

Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it. Because he's a stupid sod and he doesn't know exactly how to say 'thank you', what comes out is, "You stole my shirts?" instead.

The patient look he gets is disturbing. There's nothing about him Merlin should feel patient about-- or anyone. He's not a man who should require patience. Or-- something. "And now I'm giving them back," Merlin says, ignoring Arthur's private confusion, and hands them over. "If you can cope with that."

"...I suppose," Arthur says. He feels a little odd about this, like something is shifting. He takes the package in hand and pats it. "Here's to hoping you haven't shrunk anything of mine." It's a weak effort, he knows, but it's something.

At least Merlin doesn't look too fussed. Instead, he makes a face that is utterly dorky – there's no better word for it – and says, "Yeah, I did that especially for you. Made everything smaller, added a little touch of rat droppings. The best in prat fashion. You can't be too thorough about these things, you know."

Somewhere along the line, Merlin's ranting has become something he feels oddly fond about, and Arthur isn't sure what to do with that information. Instead, he shakes his head. "Thank you," he finally manages to say, and holds it up. "For the rat droppings."

Merlin shrugs his shoulders and smiles slightly. "Someone has to look after you," he says, "You might lose your head if it wasn't for me." Which is... inaccurate, but he'll let it pass, this time.

Arthur snorts. "Ingrate," he says, but there's no harshness behind it.

What that nets him is a flash of a smile, and then Merlin's passing forward into the living room like he belongs there. Arthur thinks about following him, thinks about talking with him some more – just to point out how stupid it is for Merlin to attempt to fix or clean anything that's come within an inch of this place. A touch on his shoulder distracts him.

"Yes?" he asks, glancing behind him. It's Lancelot.

"Morgause told me your father is Uther Pendragon," the man says, and looks slightly embarrassed, for all that. "I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter much," Arthur says, wondering vaguely where this sudden turn has come from. _It doesn't matter much_ is an outrageous mischaracterisation of the situation, or perhaps it isn't. He and his father haven't spoken about anything outside of work for well over a few weeks now, and Arthur is beginning to doubt they've ever really spoken about anything important at all.

But he does matter, Uther. Somehow.

Lancelot nods hesitantly. "She also told me you have been... less than fond of him as of late," he continues.

Has he? Arthur takes a deep breath and rubs at his forehead. "I suppose," he says. The truth is that he just got a slight taste of freedom, and now he isn't sure what to feel about anything anymore, because that yardstick is gone. He's never done well with uncertainties. "What is it to you?"

For a moment, Lancelot's resolve seems to waver. Then he says, "I was just thinking," he says, "Your father owns half the city, and his company has been solely responsible for the pressure put on government to outlaw magic. Morgause has been speaking about striking out against oppression. I... wondered if you would be inclined-- but that would be overstepping my bounds, of course."

An idea begins to dawn on Arthur. "You want me to-- speak out against my father?" It should sound ludicrous, but it really doesn't, for some reason. It's not the magic: Arthur has never cared much about the magic one way or another, beyond that it was against the law and his father was firmly against it. Which meant he was expected to be firmly against it.

(But that is kind of a lie. Four people dead. Twenty-five people wounded. Thirty-seven locked away. He's not supposed to think about that. But why?)

Lancelot takes another deep breath. He seems almost troubled.

"After a fashion," he says.

-=-

The house is starting to get crowded.

Morgana doesn't quite realise it until one day she finds Arthur sitting in the living room, surrounded by four men – some burly, some not – who look more than vaguely familiar. They're playing a game of cards; she winds up watching them for a while, until Arthur looks up and sees her.

She pulls away, back behind the wall, and frowns.

This was not the plan. The plan was that she'd move in here with Morgause, and they'd run their club together, but away from it, they'd be a unit. Just the two of them against the world, with a noble cause and a noble way of living in it, here in this wreckage of a home.

Instead, her house is getting flooded with randoms. She can't even imagine where they're _staying_, let alone where they all come from.

All right: that last one is a lie. She knows where they're from. They're from club, some of them with magic in their hearts, but for the most part it's the ones that aren't. The lost. Drifters, like Lancelot, of which she sees more and more every day.

Her heels clack against the floor as she storms into Morgause's room. "Where are they all coming from?" she demands. "Why are they _here_?"

The blonde looks up, undisturbed, and smiles serenely. "It's the next stage in our plans," she says, quietly. "We cannot do this alone, Morgana. Isn't that what this has been about from the start? Throwing off the shackles of our society together? We mustn't be selfish."

"They are in my _house_," she returns, urgently. "Surely they can stay somewhere else! Our meetings have managed to tide most of them through, haven't they? Why--"

Morgause's chair creaks as she sits forwards. "Because all of these men and these women know one thing," she says, softly. "We taught them that. That society would never turn them into movie stars or top athletes or rulemakers. That they are meant to stew in their ignorance, their impotence. And that the only way we could possibly ascend from that is to put aside what we think we wish for ourselves, and make a show of it for the world."

Morgana's breath comes out in short bursts. She isn't hyperventilating, but for the first time since this started she is... unsure. "So you're planning to turn our people into some kind of cult?" she asks, dubiously. "Morgause, you must see reason--"

"Gwen phoned," she replies, and puts whatever it is she's reading aside. "She wishes to see you again."

And there, Morgana falters. "We've already talked," she says, hesitantly.

"I think you should do so again," Morgause says. "I think you should meet with her, and let her know that she is free. That you don't need her any longer. What has she ever done beyond shackle you to a life you didn't want, much like your stepfather?"

Even now, that makes something twitch in Morgana's chest. "She's a sweet and innocent girl," she says. "She's never done anything but good by me." Even as she says it, she knows she doesn't feel it, not completely. She can tell from the smile on Morgause's face that she knows it, too, and is simply patiently enduring Morgana's protest.

"She believes she sees the good in everything," Morgause says, and she even _sounds_ utterly patient. It makes Morgana feel like a little girl. "But she's wrong, Morgana. What could she know of good? She has never been at rock bottom the way we have been." Her fingers find Morgana's wrist and lift it, showing off the mark. A living symbol of what's happened.

"End your friendship," she says, simply. "It will be the kinder choice for the both of you." There is a flicker of something in her voice that makes Morgana wonder, albeit fleetingly, if there is something else going on here.

"I will keep it in my thoughts," Morgana says, stiffly, and tugs her hand out of Morgause's grasp. No, she hasn't forgotten what happened the last time it laid there; she's staring to wonder if she remembers it in a fashion that wouldn't please Morgause awfully much. "But could you please ask the boys to keep the noise down? I can barely sleep."

"It is time for them to tend to the garden." There is something else in the light, respectful motion of Morgause's head, but she can't figure it out. Thusly confused, she makes her way back downstairs, and spends her afternoon watching four boys and a girl weed around crops she doesn't remember anyone planting.

-=-

The feeling of unease doesn't seem to leave her.

She tells herself she is being ridiculous: she believes in Morgause's cause, and every day away from Uther helps strengthen that. But like a picture that you stare at until one day, suddenly, it dawns on you that there is a rabbit and not a goose drawn on the paper, the irregularities make themselves known to her.

She reads an article in the paper about a malicious band of spray-painters, and she allows herself to feel that shred of identification. Rebels, obviously, fighting against oppression in their own fashion: except the lines they write about setting the magic free are starting to make their way onto burning shops rather than derelict buildings.

She tries to pretend she doesn't see the empty canister under the stairwell when she gets home, but she doesn't manage.

The more people pile into her house, the more she feels alone. The more alone she feels, the more time she spends at meetings, losing herself in the feel of the power at her fingertips, the one thing she's starting to manage to hold on to.

She is slightly more successful in convincing herself she isn't watching Arthur slip as well; if anything, being away from his father is doing him a world of good.

-=-

Living with the lads around isn't as bad as Arthur had initially anticipated. Actually, a few drunken benders in, he's starting to quite like it. The comradery of it all. He never used to have that sort of thing-- well, not outside of football, at least. Bumping the shoulders, snapping the towels, that sort of thing. Sportsmanship.

_This_ isn't anything like the footie, though. For one, half of them don't even _watch_ sports, and the rest of the lot are slowly starting to grow out of the habit. Instead, they stay indoors, drink beer, or head out to tend to the garden; Arthur's dreams have turned more fanciful, towards wildfires and jagged letters and other imagery that's clearly caused by a fully occupied mind. Last night, he dreamed he stood atop a skyscraper, and leapt _down_, and it felt like soaring.

He doesn't even mind Merlin so much, although the boy keeps himself at a considerable distance from everyone else. Skulking around the kitchen, drinking the milk and shooting worried glances out the window.

"You look like you expect someone to jump out at you any minute," Arthur says, feeling rather relaxed and amiable right now. A good night's sleep will do that. He leans against the doorway. "Don't worry, if there's anyone looking to do anything to your skinny arse, I'll make sure to scare them off. God knows you need someone to protect you."

"Oh, because I can't, just because I'm not shaped like a gorilla?" Merlin retorts, setting the milk carton down on the counter. "I'm just thinking."

"Have a..." Arthur squints at the other crap sitting on the kitchen counter. Lettuce? Carrots? "...Raddish for your thoughts," he finishes. He's quite clever, he thinks.

Merlin doesn't appreciate his cleverness, clearly, since he rolls his eyes. "You just never seemed like the commune type," he says, with a shrug.

Arthur flicks a carrot out of the way. "And since when are you the expert on me, then?" A beat. "... It's not a commune. These people are just... staying in for a while." That's not a commune. That's being decent to a group of good men of questionable sanity who are just in need of some shelter for a bit.

There's this dubious look that gets thrown his way that falls under the banner of being undeserved, again. Not for the first time, Arthur wonders why that keeps happening. "It's been a month," Merlin points out. "How long did your friend Morgause say they were going to stay anyway?"

The blonde never said much to him, actually, and Morgana got tight-lipped about her, so all Arthur has to offer is a magnanimous wave of his arms. "A few weeks," he says, "Maybe a few more, who knows? It's not like it's _your_ house anyway, _Mer_lin. Although you're probably the primary stray by now."

Merlin's face takes on what Arthur would have privately called a bitchface, were it not for the fact that it simply makes the man's ears look bigger, further destroying any menace he might have thought about radiating. "I'm not a 'stray'. I'm less of one than you are. _I_ still have my flat."

"I _live_ here," Arthur retorts, pointing a finger at the little bastard. "I... you know. Temporarily." He has this sinking feeling he might not actually win this argument, which means he has to fight all the harder for it.

"Uh-huh."

"While they fix my own place."

Merlin raises the milk carton back up with a slightly botched attempt at raising his eyebrow. "And when's that going to be then?" he asks. "I thought you said you weren't going to bother with repairs until you 'bloody well felt like it'."

What? "I did not," Arthur says, covering a little more distance between them to make his point, "Say anything like that. I know father has some contractors on the job. It'll be done in no time at all." It feels like his control's slipping, for a moment. Why _is_ he still here?

With an embarrassing slurp, Merlin does away with some more milk. "Your father does, does he?" he asks, his forehead crinkling impishly.

"Yeah, he does," Arthur says, and doesn't quite know why it feels like there's something of a pressure system pulsing under his chest. These question marks are becoming a regular part of his life, and for the first time, he feels queasy about it."What are you trying to imply?"

"I'm implying that you don't _want_ to leave," Merlin replies, and leans over to poke him in the chest with a finger, trailing it up. That pressure system leaps up a few notches; the smirk on Merlin's face does funny things with it. "You like it here."

"Do not," Arthur says, feebly, and he's in the middle of wondering why on God's green Earth he's looking at Merlin's stupid damn _lips_ when those lips are in his face – or rather on Arthur's _mouth_ \- like it's the most normal thing in the world.

And so, Arthur is about two seconds from-- well, not flailing, but making his confusion known in an appropriate manner and maybe establishing that really, he's flattered, but honestly he is a bonafide heterosexual-- but Merlin has already pulled back, a goofy smile on his lips.

Arthur thinks: What?

Arthur thinks: _Huh._

Arthur thinks, he thinks that for all that this is a first kiss, Merlin certainly doesn't look very _worried_ about his reaction.

And Arthur thinks: Well, Arthur's brain isn't doing much thinking, really, when it comes right down to it. It seems thoroughly incapable all of a sudden, like working out a coherent thought is a bit like wanting to wrestle your way through a thick swamp.

"What," he says. His mouth establishes a strange and bewildering new habit of trailing behind on his mind. "I--"

It nets him a chuckle. "That's the first time I've gotten you speechless, I think," Merlin says, smirking, and nudges him in the chest like he didn't just _kiss another man in the middle of said man's kitchen_. Arthur's feet are dredging ever deeper through that proverbial sludge and there's not a bit of dry land in sight.

His mouth, meanwhile, shuts rather suddenly. Then opens again: "Listen, Merlin-- I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but I'm not gay." The words sound stilted, almost rehearsed, for which he blames his confusion.

And of all the indignities in the world, Merlin absolutely has to opt to _laugh_, pushing against his shoulder, and saying, "Uh-huh, and neither am I," before flouncing off into the next room with a little wiggle in his step (that lasts as long as it takes him to trip and nearly fall over one of the floorboards).

It's only the ringing of a phone that snaps Arthur out of his sheer-- his sheer _something_. Yank his own arse up out of that swamp, so to speak. It takes him three tries to pick up the receiver, and then he does, and suddenly the moment has fled him like-- like his own bloody metaphor.

"Arthur," says Uther, and there isn't an indulgent strain to be found, and Arthur's messed-up internal pressure system sinks deep down, past his hips into his knees and beyond.

-=-

Uther's office is as empty and chilled as it's ever been; as a child, Arthur always secretly believed his father had lizard skin, or at least some kind of internal heating unit. Or it might be that being near Uther has always carried a certain chill to it – he's certainly never heard Morgana complain. It's a cold certainty that things are one way and they should remain so, made reality through the relentless application of air conditioning.

None of that matters right now, however, with the doors closing heavily behind him and his father's frowning face but few feet away.

"Arthur," he begins. "The men I've hired have finished their appraisal of your house. They have come back to me with some troubling news. Of course, the police have already informed you of the remains of the explosive they found--"

For a moment, Arthur's mouth runs dry. "They haven't, Father," he says, slowly. "Our... phone reception is not very reliable."

On Arthur's mental scorecard, he ticks off the first vaguely disappointed grunt of the day. "I see," says Uther. "They found signs of a fire early on in the investigation. The explosives are a relatively early find. You can see why this is worrisome. Someone is trying to liquidate members of this family, and I will not have it."

Arthur nods obediently, even though part of him wants to find whoever blew up his house and shake their hand.

"The authorities have been informed," Uther continues, "And I have hired our own investigators to aid them in their efforts. This would-be murderer will not escape our clutches." It is rare that Uther has an individual to use for a target; somewhere, Arthur assumes he might be enjoying this. "But that is not the only reason I have called you here."

Of course it isn't. It very rarely is-- and Arthur stops that traitorous line of thought in its tracks.

"You and your sister have been living in that hovel despite my best efforts, for quite some time now," he speaks. "I believe it's time for the both of you to stop being ridiculous and make your way home. I'm certain you'll be relieved when you come home, and can convince your willful sister to see some sense."

Arthur has to bite back on a comment about Morgana's ability to _see sense_, but manages by sheer willpower alone. He opens his mouth: to say 'all right' and 'I'll leave immediately, Father' and ignore the pit in his stomach that cries out for the freedom he's finally managed to conquer for himself.

"I do not think so," is what he says.

He can see the confusion flitting across his father's features.

"What?"

"I do not think so," Arthur repeats, and steps forward, crossing the invisible line between his father and himself. He isn't sure where this is coming from. "You have determined where I've lived and where I've worked for quite some time, Father. It is in your name that I have lined myself up for a job eked out in your image, not mine. It is in your name I have been living in a _palace_ built to fit you like a glove. It is in your name that I have been tempering my sister for the past ten years of my life and I will not have it any longer."

And lo, that confusion turns to anger, and Arthur finds he _does not care_. It is as if the storm in his heart has just erupted and now it is all raining down on him.

"You will not speak to me like that," Uther hisses. "I am your father--"

"And I thank you for your efforts," Arthur says, articulating clearly and without fault. "But I decline. Morgana and I will stay where we are. You will allow us further access to the company's finances, and _I_ will consent to work my job as I see fit so that you are not left without a capable second. If you deny me these terms, I quit."

"This is an outrage--" Uther begins.

"I have given you my terms, Father," he says, and gives Uther the slightest incline of his head. "I look forward to hearing from you about the investigation."

And with that, he's leaving: out of the house, onto the street, crossing the distance home by foot.

He's... not entirely certain what happened. There's a thing buzzing under his feet and in his skin, a thing propelling him forward, but into what he still isn't quite sure.

 

-=-

When he comes home, their latest member has settled in after a harrowing three days spent on the doorsteps. Harrowing, because while Leon might be off the horse tranquilizers or whatever he was on, he hasn't actually gotten any slimmer and the sunlight played havoc on his senses.

But none of that is of any import _now_. The buzzing in Arthur's veins is still there; he greets Leon with a smirk and gets a raised glass in return. It's full of water – that much is understandable – and after giving it a moment's thought Arthur is heading over towards him, smirk still in place. "How are you settling in, then?"

"Fine, sir," Leon says, with a little halting pause in his voice, like he isn't used to it yet. "I just got myself installed in the bunk, sir. Looking forward to tonight."

Arthur hasn't got the last clue exactly what is going on tonight, but he gives Leon an idle nod anyway. "Good," he says, and pats the man on the shoulder. "You know, I hadn't thought of you as a project bloke. Glad to see you actually managed to bring up the stones."

"Never back down from a fight, sir," Leon says. And they could speak more, except the door's just shut and Merlin's unkempt head is poking around the corner, smiling sheepishly.

Arthur ignores the clenching in his gut, sighs, and walks over to see whatever the idiot's broken this time. He's set on staunchly ignoring anything that went on before – slipping back into the regular fashion of things will do him good.

-=-

Morgana is drawing circles on the tiny coffee table in front of her. It isn't her kind of place: too middle of the road, neither rich enough to impress, nor poor enough to feed her need to help the oppressed. But right now, that doesn't matter: she let Gwen set the terms, because usually she sets the terms herself and it's time for... a change.

She is starting to have vague ideas of rising up against Morgause, and of asking Gwen to live with her in the house; the idea that she has to end this friendship doesn't sit well with her, and her stomach is churning. Still, still, what if it is the right thing?

What if Gwen has been keeping her down, binding her, making her blind to her own potential?

Her thoughts are interrupted as the girl slips into the seat in front of her with an apologetic smile and a large coffee. "I'm sorry I'm late," she says, "The police called about Lance. They still haven't seen him. I mean, heard of him. You know, the police thing--" She sighs. "Sorry, I'm not really good at expressing myself these days."

"It's all right," Morgana finds herself saying. "You're going through something. There's bound to be effects."

Now Gwen's smile is relieved, and she nods, stirring sugar into her coffee. "I just don't know why he left," she says, "I keep wondering if he got caught up in the mob or something, you know? Don't laugh. I know it sounds strange, but I'm starting to think..."

"Gwen," Morgana says, and pastes on her best smile. "I'm sure Lance is absolutely fine. He just ran off for a bit because he couldn't deal, or some other stupid excuse that men use when they realise they could _possibly_ be in a happy relationship."

Again, she's ribbing on him, but she really can't stop herself. He deserves it, really. But it still makes Gwen look unhappy. "You never used to say things like that," she says, watching Morgana carefully. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

Morgana sighs. "I'm just figuring myself out," she says, "Exploring my boundaries. It's freeing, you know. You should think about it."

She can't read Gwen's expression, and it bothers her immensely. "You also never used to be so cryptic," the girl says, and takes a sip of her coffee, careful and thoughtful as always. "Could you please just answer a direct question? Where have you _been_?"

With that, Morgana's form stiffens. "I've been living outside the city," she says, "If you must know. It's not a top secret or anything." She pauses. Laughs, even though she knows she shouldn't. "Oh god, are you starting to wonder if _I'm_ in the mob?"

"...No," Gwen says, and now her brow is frowning in earnest. "I never said that. Could you just answer my question without talking around it?"

"I _am_ telling you exactly what you're asking!" Morgana retorts, and now it's really starting to get on her nerves. Maybe Morgause really is right. Maybe this is why she should end it. "Will you stop nagging about it?"

"I'm doing this all wrong." Gwen sighs, and rubs at her forehead. "I just haven't seen a lot of you in weeks. And then I find you and you keep being so defensive, Morgana. I'm worried, and I'm hurt, and I just really need my best friend to be straight with me."

"Good luck, because he's done a runner," Morgana says, snidely, and regrets it instantly.

The hurt flashes across Gwen's features in an instant. "You know I'm talking about you," she says. "Or I thought so, anyway."

"Don't be ridiculous, Gwen," she says. "I haven't been that important to you since you found yourself a man. It's all right, though: I'm always _there_ if you actually do need me, right?" She slams her hands down on the table. "I have bigger and better things in my life now," she hisses. "I want you to leave me alone."

Gwen looks stricken, and a little bit angry, but Morgana – in a fit of self-righteousness – is unwilling to bend. She gets up swiftly, and doesn't look at her at all. No doubt there's a stream of rationalizations coming her way, some kind of pragmatic 'reason' for the lot of this, and she doesn't have the stomach to hear it.

"Something _is_ going on," the girl breathes instead. "Morgana, please--"

"I don't want to hear it!" She affixes her most imperious stare. "You may be happy to lounge around in middle-class obscurity, but there is more to our lives than following the rules. I don't want to see you again, Gwen."

She quells the little voice that rises up in protest deep in her chest – or tries to. She storms out of the cafeteria, muting the sound of Gwen's voice in the back of her head saying _don't leave_ and _what's going on with you_ and _please, I care about you, come back._

They're all the pleas of a woman who's lost her favourite plaything. That must be it. She sees now that she must have been mistaken about Gwen.

-=-

"Morgause!" she calls, stalking past the silent statues of men outside and into the house. "Morgause! I need to speak with you!"

The woman isn't hidden away in her usual room, or out in the yard, and Morgana has to shove her way through several groups of people – how did they come to number so many? - before she finds the woman.

The blonde is speaking to Arthur. They're in the back of the room, and all of her attention is _on_ Arthur. Something jealous and ugly grips Morgana's heart and presses tight on it. "Morgause," she calls. "We need to talk. I've just gone to see Gwen, and I've told her that--"

"Can this wait?"

Morgause's words are slow, measured, and her face betrays nothing. "Your brother and I were discussing something of great importance."

"I did what you said," Morgana pants. Another thing she hadn't realised: the fact that she'd been overexerting herself in her search. "I talked to Gwen, please, this will only be a minute."

She sees Arthur roll his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, Morgana," he drawls. "I'm sure you and Morgause can discuss your lover's spat in good time. There are some plans in the house that the two of us have to sort out first. Why don't you see about the garden? I hear they've planted some tulips."

Morgana wishes she'd worn heels today, so she could have taken them off on the spot and smashed his face in with it. "I don't care about the tulips," she says, holding her head up high. "What I care about is talking to _her_."

"Please, Morgana," Morgause says, and her mouth has turned the slightest bit, adding power to her words. "It will just be five minutes."

She's so livid she can barely speak, so she spits out a "Fine!" before she hurls herself into the kitchen, a storm in motion. Smashes down on the tap and washes her hands, twitching with anger the whole while.

Wait. Fine, she'll wait. It isn't as if she hasn't been _waiting_ all of her life. Waiting on Uther, waiting on Arthur, waiting on the whole world. Waiting on Gwen, to get a bloody clue and figure out the way the world works before it kills off every last inch of her sweetness.

But then again, that already seems to have happened.

"Is something troubling you?"

Morgana pauses in her motions, and looks up. There's the boy with the big ears, Merlin, the one with the perpetually guileless expression. "Nothing's wrong," she says, a little too harshly. "Just an argument. It'll be fine."

She nearly smashes her hands against the counter in trying to dry them off.

Finally, she sighs. "I don't know what's happening to my life," she whispers. She doesn't know if he hears it and she doesn't care. "I just don't know."

Going by the sharp intake of breath, she figures he has heard it. "It used to be that all the lines were set," she continues. "I-- Merlin, right? Do you know what you belong to? What side you're on? Do you think there are any sides at all or we're just..." By ourselves, she doesn't say. "Nevermind. It's stupid. I'm sorry for imposing on your time."

She doesn't wait for an answer: there's a door leading out into the garden where some of the people are working, and she desperately needs to go there and now, and so she does. Storming through the kitchen more distraught than she came in, her dress billowing behind her, tearing a little where it gets caught on a stray nail.

"I think I do, yeah," Merlin mutters, and glances away from the door to the living room, where a blond sits in total silence. His brow furrows as he looks at Arthur, troubled.

Morgause joins her in the garden eventually. By then, she has wrapped her arms around herself, surveying the yard and the work being done. Not quite seeing any of it: she wonders just when her life started to get so utterly out of control.

"I'm sorry," Morgause states, sympathetically. "Your brother and I are working on something quite important."

"There used to be a time you spent your days with me," says Morgana. She feels the vulnerability setting in and hates it, _hates_ it, but she doesn't know what to _do_. "There used to be a time when our meetings were the high point of our week. Now I feel as if you think them almost irrelevant."

"There are more important things on this Earth than slamming each other into oblivion like monkeys," Morgause replies. "It is cathartic. And important. But it's only the first step."

Somehow, the words, the way she places her emphasis, stirs something. Scares her. Morgana looks up, and searches those harsh yet kind features, and finds the passion that has always been there. Now, though, it seems to have lessened as a draw.

She is not sure what she is doing here, any longer.

"And what is the second?"

The smile she gains is almost... Stepford, in its sincerity and yet lack thereof. Morgana finds herself withdrawing. "You are standing in it," she says, raising her hands. "Look at these people. They've spent years slaving away just so they could buy new couches and new televisions, ways to ignore what they really are. Now they are finding a purpose. Now they are finding the lowest point of themselves, the point where they have to _strike back_."

The hair on the back of Morgana's neck raises.

"Strike back at _what_?" she asks.

She doesn't get an answer: suddenly there is screaming, and yelling, and the men and women in the garden pull themselves away from their labours so they can rush at the house. She turns to look – and then Morgause is gone, no doubt lost in the throng of people heading towards the house.

She follows them, asking questions: "What happened?", "Did anyone get hurt?", "Has anyone seen Arthur?" but gets no answers, none at all, until she is inside.

Three men burst in through the living room door with a body between them, and her heart catches in her throat. It's one of the newest members, Leon: his hair is matted red and clings to his skull in an awkward fashion.

He's dead, she realises, and freezes up in shock. Can't move, literally, simply watches as the people quiet, surrounding the corpse.

"We have to get rid of it," one hisses. "We have to get rid of it now before the cops find out."

"But where?" another asks, "We can't just toss it over a bridge, they'll find it!"

"I know," Lancelot provides, standing firm, "We'll bury it in the yard. No one will think to look there, if we are careful."

This is _insane_.

She licks her lips. It is insane, and it is _not_ her life, it can't be her life, and that body there is not an it. It has a face.

"He has a face," she whispers. And then louder: "He has a face. _He_ has a name."

There are many things confusing about this scene, but the one thing she does know is that she can't, won't let this man be treated like a dead bag of potatoes. That's the last line and she can't cross it, not here, not now, not ever.

"Ma'am," Lancelot says, respectfully, and sounding every bit as confused as she does. "There are no names in Project Mayhem."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, and it's with the outrage that her old, regal tone returns to her. Commanding. The change in the men surrounding her is instant: they stand up straighter. "His name is _Leon_ and he's just _died_! What do you think you are trying to do? You cannot simply bury him in the garden and be done with him!"

Everywhere, there are owlish eyes looking at her like she's something new and frightening. It just spurs on her temper, but she has spoken her bit and she isn't sure what to say any longer. Where is Arthur? _Arthur_ has never had trouble commanding respect – not when he bothered to try for it. She needs him. She needs something.

"His name is Leon," Lancelot slowly repeats. "I... think I get it. In death, the people of Project Mayhem do have a name." His eyes flick towards Leon's sodden corpse, and he repeats, reverently: "His name is Leon."

(Lancelot is not nameless. Lancelot has never been nameless-- not to her and her irrational dislike, not to Arthur and his stupid puppylike attachment. The fact that he seems to think of himself as such, of everyone else in this room-- everyone but the dead-- is the most terrifying thing about this whole scene, and that's what strikes her most)

Again, he says it. On the fourth time, his voice is joined by another's. On the sixth, it's everyone's, and all Morgana can do is stare at it.

"Have you all gone mad?" she asks, loudly, but it has no effect, her voice does not carry, she is alone. "Please! You have to listen to reason!" But they will not cease chanting, they will not cease speaking, and it is driving her mad, she doesn't know what to do and doesn't know what to say. "Just stop!"

But they don't, they do not stop, they simply pick up Leon's corpse and carry him into the garden, chanting over and over, _His name is Leon, his name is Leon_ like it's a sacred phrase rather than one poor dead man's name, like it's a sacrament rather than a person.

She does not belong here.

She is alone.

Something vile rises up in her throat. She can no longer stand it. She tears out of the room, searching desperately for Arthur or Morgause, someone familiar who isn't just some nameless drone _chanting_. Someone who can explain to her what just happened here.

She finds no one. With the others outside, the house is empty. It closes in on her, almost, and the ruined stairs that used to be such a proud sign of her rebellion now seem treacherous, the broken windows that used to sing of freedom bring her a chill, and the front door with its deficiencies--

There is someone yelling outside.

Morgana pushes through the front door and lets it smash back into the frame behind her. She nearly forgets to mind the last step of the porch, nearly trips on her face, but it's imperative that she get away from the house now and sees whoever it is outside calling for her.

It's Gwen.

"_Morgana_," she calls again, plaintively, clinging on to her coat which is by far and away too thin for the cold. "I-- sorry, I'm sorry, but you just _left_ and I can't do this, I can't deal with this on my own, Morgana-- I know this is a bit like stalking but I had to find you--"

"Gwen," Morgana returns, instead, and before she knows it she has her arms wrapped around the girl and is hugging her for dear life. "It's okay, it's all right, I'm so _glad_ you're here. I don't know what to do."

They stand there for a minute, gibbering like fools, and it's so normal, so desperate and so human that Morgana could – and does – cry, and forgets for a second about poor Leon.

"Something's wrong," Morgana whispers, pressing her face into Gwen's neck. "I think something's really wrong with me, Gwen. Oh _god_, I don't know what it is, I just know something's really, terribly wrong."

"I can tell you, if you'd like."

If Morgana lets go of Gwen, it is only so she can turn around and identify the source of the answer. It's that boy, Merlin, his hair sticking up out from his head. His expression is dire, and more tired than anyone of his innocence should ever rightly look.

Gwen pulls away a little, herself. "What's going on here?" she asks, quietly. "I mean, not to interrupt you or anything."

Merlin takes a deep breath, and sticks his hands in his pockets, clearly looking for something to mess around with. "I just suspected at first," he starts, "I mean, I really l-- like your brother, Morgana, I was interested, but sometimes he'd get so strange while we were talking. I couldn't figure it out."

There is a moment where Morgana wishes that she didn't realise Gwen was leaning away from her right now, but it's a random, stray thought, and not of any importance to what Merlin is saying.

"So this is Arthur's fault," she says, slowly, and feels a not entirely irrational burst of anger. If he set all of this up as some kind of scheme--

"No," Merlin says, and his eyes seem to have real trouble meeting hers. "It's yours."

-=-

Arthur wakes up on the couch. He sits up and cracks his jaw on a yawn, rubbing at the back of his head. Strangely enough, he doesn't feel rested – but he usually doesn't. That's life, and all that lot.

What _is_ peculiar is that most of the people are missing. The house is quiet. He shrugs, and swings his feet over the edge of the couch. That is when he hears it: a light thud, coming from the kitchen.

Not so empty, after all.

He lets his feet carry him there, eager to see who's intruding on his time now, and finds Merlin there. It's become almost tradition that Merlin is always _there_ in that kitchen, and nowhere else. The kitchen is where Merlin belongs. Something like that.

Look, he never claimed to be articulate at this point of the … afternoon.

"Oh, it's you," he says.

Merlin seizes up like a deer in headlights – and he should, Arthur reminds himself, last time was _really weird_ \- and cranes his head over as if he's caught in the act.

Or looking to say something important.

"I need to talk to you," Merlin says, urgently. "Look, I was trying to tell your sister about this earlier, but she took off. And it's really important you listen--"

Arthur leans his weight into the counter, a bare step away. "Let me guess," he drawls, "You're here to tell me I should get out of the closet and start a family with two-point-three _dogs_ or something. I don't know what you've gotten into your head about us, and I apologise if I've led you on, but--"

For all that he's trying to be kind, Merlin still looks at him like he's about to tear his own hair out. "See," Arthur says, defensively, "If I was gay, I would have known by now--"

"It's _not_ about _that_," Merlin says, and it's impressively growl-like for a boy his size and weight. "There's something wrong with you, Arthur. It's really important that we talk about this and that you don't go off and do anything else."

He's not making any sense at all. Arthur squints. "Do something," he repeats, dubiously. "Like what?"

Arthur isn't sure what prompts him to do the thing he does next, which involves pushing forward into Merlin's personal space and pushing him into the counter and-- oh-- okay, he knows what it is.

"Like this?" he asks, and feels some satisfaction at the sight of Merlin's pupils dilating. "Because I told you--"

"--You're not gay, I _know_," Merlin says, and seems conflicted about which way to pull towards, "But it's not about that, this is important--"

And suddenly stills, eyes big and pupils _really_ blown. Is it because of Arthur's immense sex-appeal, that reaches even across gender borders? Or was Merlin half-right the first time and is he one of those equal-opportunity sluts? Because really--

"...For a man who claims not to be gay, you do seem to be poking me a lot," Merlin says.

Because it's obvious Merlin isn't going to get to a real point any time soon-- No. Because he's just trying to settle this argument-- No. Because maybe, he really is poking Merlin, and maybe he really does want to do something about that, except that would be gay, and--

Because of _something_, he leans forward and smashes his lips to Merlin's. Narrowly avoids their noses clashing. His fingers are curled tight into the fabric of Merlin's stupid sash and he doesn't care, because there's a muffled noise of surprise (not protest) and then there's a warm tongue in his mouth, seeking out its place with unfailing accuracy and a certain amount of possession.

Maybe there is something to this gay business, Arthur thinks, deliriously, and he'd already pissed off his father for good as it stood, might as well go all the way.

He's not the only one _poking_ here. He's curious. He's curious enough that he realises that Merlin is poking _his hand_, and that's because his hand is covering up the rise in Merlin's trousers. Rubbing at it, until it rises further in his palm, and that's bloody well amazing--

"We need to stop," Merlin says, roughly. "Listen, Arthur, I came here to tell you, you're not being-- _oh god_."

Arthur finds out he quite likes it when Merlin's head falls back like that. Especially considering all the neck it exposes. He has to kiss it; kisses away the protests again, the noises that don't so much say _stop this I don't want it_ as _I wish I didn't want this right now_, and then his fingers fit into the inside of Merlin's boxers and all of it goes away.

Together, they scramble to undo their zippers and manage to do so eventually. It's rough and it's chaotic and Arthur has no idea whose limb belongs to who, exactly. But that, too, changes: his fingers brush along Merlin's length in earnest and the heat of it shakes him awake. He wraps a hand around it, and waits to hear the moan that he knows is coming.

And it does, utterly familiar, making him giddy on something higher. Then Merlin's hand is on him, sure and steady like he's done it a hundred times before. It still makes Arthur hiss, makes him press his face to Merlin's neck and lick at the space underneath his jaw.

Rubbing off another man is easier than he'd expected. It's natural, he knows where to go, rubbing his thumb against the head before stroking down, the right amount of pressure in the right places. Merlin isn't quiet at all, but somehow he didn't expect him to be. He's a moaner, loud and unabashed, and even if he wasn't then the sound of the back of his head thumping against one of the kitchen cabinets would take care of drawing attention.

Merlin's hand on him is a different kind of gorgeous, expert – of course he would be – and brilliant, moving until he's once again losing track of who's who and who's where. He bites at a jawline, then an ear, and then at nothing at all, a tongue slipping past his lips and silencing him. He thrusts hard up into the tight grip, needing more, taking more, and feeling unashamed to do so because Merlin is doing the exact same thing.

It's both slow and it's fast. He doesn't know he's close to coming until he does, groaning a name or just a syllable against Merlin's cheek. A hand comes up and takes a hold of his behind, and somehow that helps him-- he squeezes softly once, twists his hand without coordination and Merlin is suddenly spilling over him, oddly quieter in his final moments. He mainly produces a few hitching breaths.

There's semen on his expensive trousers. After months in this place, it barely shows. (Merlin could have it cleaned, he thinks, ridiculously; but it's the moment right after, and he's distracted by all of that skin and that heat, so he's allowed to think a few stupid things)

When they're done, Merlin is the one leaning against the counter, panting hard and licking at his lips. "I shouldn't have done that," he says, sounding vaguely frustrated.

"What?" Arthur asks, from his spot near the table. Staring at him. And his neck. And his cheeks. It's a little mandatory. "D'you have like a boyfriend or something? Because in that case you shouldn't have gone around kissing strange men in their shitty downtown hovels."

"No, that's not it," Merlin says, and there is panic rising back in his eyes. "Arthur, you're not well. You're not being yourself. Well, you are being yourself right now, and I can tell because you're being a right _arse_ again, but--"

Something flickers in Arthur's eyes. His stance shifts. "But _nothing_," he says. "You've held me up long enough."

-=-

When _Morgana_ wakes up, it is with a headache. A headache, and a large gaping hole of blackness in her mind. Three months ago, she would have called it a hangover, but she knows she didn't go drinking today.

Slowly, scraps start to flood in as she sits up. The bed is uncomfortable, with scratchy blankets and a pillow that could've been used as a brick in a past life. She remembers Gwen and Merlin, Merlin talking-- about magic. About her magic.

'The effects can be explosive if you have problems and they start to seep in with the magic', he'd said. Something about projection, and loneliness, and how magic could change the world around yourself to fit your needs if you weren't careful and you hadn't learned to control yourself. Subconsciously. That it could conjure up images that weren't real, sounds and actions--

"I haven't done that often with you, you know."

Morgause's voice carries, softly stern as always, but there is a sense of nonchalance about it that Morgana has never heard from her before. Alarmed, she turns her head, and finds the woman sitting in a chair on the other end of the room. Her hair has been chopped off, framing her face now, falling no further than her ears.

She doesn't smile.

"Gone walkabout," she specifies, before Morgana can ask. "I wouldn't. But I had to, to protect our interests. I don't expect you to understand."

Morgause. Merlin had said something about Morgause, when he'd spoken of the images. She finds her breathing is starting to quicken. "Who are you?" she asks. "Tell me who you are. _Now._"

"I'm you, of course," Morgause says, reclining into her chair. "Your brother's beau figured it out. Not that Arthur knows about half the things the two of them have gotten up to." A pause. "Well, I'm an aspect of you," she murmurs. "Everything you've wanted from life, that's me. A better relationship with your brother. A life away from your father. The way I speak, the way I do magic, is the way you have wanted to speak, to do magic."

It feels like her entire world is falling apart one brick at a time. The implications are stunning, horrid, something-- something. She doesn't have a name for it. What does this make her? What has she been _doing_? "He said you've done something to Arthur," she rasps out, and her knuckles whiten as she clings to her blanket.

"Technically speaking, I haven't done a thing to Arthur," she says, airily, like it hardly matters. "_You_ have. You always wanted to give him a push. Make him more aware of who he was and what he wanted out of life. Mhm."

She sits forward. "We've accomplished a great deal between the three of us," she says. "But right now I'm going to need you to stay gone for a while. Just until Arthur and I get the important things settled."

"What," Morgana asks, scrambling up against the headboard, "Are you doing with Arthur?"

Morgause smiles.

-=-

"Any luck with Arthur?" Gwen asks, once she catches the big-eared boy (and god, does she feel awful thinking of him like that) barreling out of the house again. He seems to be going at quite a speed, which doesn't do much to soothe her nerves, really, but maybe it's good news?

When the boy skids to a stop, he nearly doubles over with exertion, panting hard. "Can't-- he went-- Gone," he manages to communicate. She sort of gets his drift, but honestly--

"That looks painful," she says, sympathetically. And reaches over to pat him on the back, because he really does look like he's having a tough time, the poor bloke.

"I'm-- fine. Just have to--" He gets a little wheezy near the end of it. "--Morgana?"

Gwen sighs, and purses her lips. "She's definitely gone," she says, apologetically, "I couldn't stop her."

"I couldn't stop Arthur, either," the boy wheezes. He starts the long trip back upright. "He just switched off. I think it's got a hold of him."

Gwen isn't used to all of this sorcery and action: she just nods, because he sounds like he knows what he's talking about, and she really doesn't. It sounds sensible, at least. "We need to find them both," she says, urgently, because _that_, she knows.

The boy nods, and extends a gangly limb – hand attached – for hers. "I'm Merlin, by the way," he said, "Sorry I couldn't tell you earlier, what with all the magic--"

He has an odd thing about talking in hand gestures. "...You know."

She shakes his hand once it's still again. "I'm Gwen," she says, and pauses as her eyes catch sight of his trousers. The front of his trousers. Her eyebrows go up.

"It's been a really weird day," Merlin says, and smiles a nervous smile that spreads from ear to ear over his red face. "C'mon, let's get going. We can't waste time."

And with that, he starts running; and Gwen is caught racing after him, yelling, frantically, "Where are we going?!"

-=-

Morgana slams her fists into the door. She does so again. And again. And again. Behind her, she hears that put-upon sigh again, all amused tolerance. It just spurs her on. She yanks on the doorknob again. "I'm going to get this open," she snarls.

"You won't," Morgause says, shaking her head. "Just let this happen, Morgana. It'll be everything you've wanted. Everything we've planned for."

"I haven't planned a goddamn thing!" Morgana snarls. She's ready to turn around-- and then she realises, suddenly, that Morgause has been stalling. That Morgause is her. That she is Morgause.

She backs away from the door, her mind roiling with the spin of those thoughts. Behind her, a blonde head quirks quizically. "I'm you," she murmurs. "You're me. You _can't_ do anything I can't do."

"Morgana..." Morgause says, her voice a low warning.

Morgana just closes her eyes, and thinks. _Thinks_.

Goes through her memories of being stuck in this room and the sheets and the light and Morgause and then there's a big block of black, sleep, except it wasn't _sleep_, she wasn't sleeping--

She was coming in through the door, she was shutting the door behind her--

She was muttering under her breath, a spell, the words of the spell, they're there, in her memories--

"It _hurts_," Morgause snarls behind her. "Morgana, stop hurting yourself!"

"_Ætýne_," she hisses. The door falls open. She nearly doubles over with the force of it; behind her, Morgause is yelling, screaming, hollering things at her, her normal composure blown to bits, and Morgana doesn't care.

Instead, she scrambles against the floor, all clumsy fingers and disorientation, and nearly slams herself into the wall in her effort to get up and get _out_. Something is happening, something very, very _bad_ is happening. She doesn't stop to wait for the elevator – it would take too long – but rushes past it for the stairwell, running down the stairs like hell itself is on her heels.

In a way, it is. It's valid in the way she can still feel Morgause's gaze pricking into the back of her neck, and in the way the receptionist nods at her and winks as she storms on by. Calls after her, yelling "Ma'am!" like it really is respect, and not some politeness meant for whoever's paying for your wage that day.

Of course the motel would have revolving doors: she puts in all the strength she can find in herself to make them move faster, faster, until a gust of wind hits her across the face. Outside. She's outside. She's escaped. She's--

She has no idea where to go. In fact, she's about five seconds from being struck by a car as she's found herself standing in the middle of the street, but it rushes past her, blaring its horns at her in obvious disagreement with her choice in position.

Arthur. Morgause has Arthur. She-- her-- whoever she was. Is. Something. She has Arthur. And she's Morgause – so like before, the knowledge of where Arthur is has to be in her. In her mind. What she knows is what Morgana knows, what Morgana knows is what Morgause knows--

"Come on," she snarls at herself, desperately, and stumbles back. Her hand smacks against a stationary car. "Come on, come on, _think_." The words have no effect, other than to make her breath hitch more in hyperventilation. "Come on come on come on--"

"_Morgana_!"

Her head lurches up immediately, panicked eyes seeking out the source of the voice. Is it? No-- She couldn't find her-- she is her--

"Morgana," Gwen shouts again, nearly tripping over her own dress as she comes barreling at her. "What-- how-- are you okay-- I didn't think we'd find you--"

The boy – Merlin – is a few moments behind, but he sounds far more out of breath. It beats a staccato against Morgana's thoughts, along with her own heavy, nigh-uncontrollable breathing.

"We don't have time-- for this," Merlin pants, "Oh god, I am never running again after this-- we have to find _Arthur_."

"She has him," Morgana says, grasping a hold of the one thought she's truly, terrifyingly sure of. "Oh god, Merlin, she has him, and I'm not sure why and I _have to know_, she's _me_, I have to know--"

Merlin rights himself with great difficulty. "I could find you-- by your magic, you've got loads of it, but I've got more," he explains, the words coming out in a rush. "If Morgause is connected to your magic maybe I can find her, too, I just need you to hold still for a moment, calm down."

"What are you going to do?" Gwen asks, her eyes flicking from Morgana to Merlin and back. Somehow, it's the thought that she understands less of this than any of them do, that Gwen is still here in spite of it, is what calms Morgana: there's always been a quiet kind of courage to Gwen that she's envied, and now, she can tap into it for strength.

She takes a deep breath and nods. "Do it," she says.

Merlin looks shifty. "We need to get off the street," he says. And he's got a point: it's dark, but there's still got to be dozens of people out. He drags Morgana into an alleyway, muttering vague explanations to Gwen about magic and memories that even Morgana doesn't quite understand.

Who is it that her brother let into her home, she wonders, for possibly the first time – when Merlin faces her, his eyes already gold.

"I'm sorry if this hurts," he says.

It does.

(_She has the package in her hands and gives it a last once-over to make sure it is intact – Arthur's keys are stuck firmly in her pocket, she'll lock the door on her way out and leave as little evidence as possible_)

(_She speaks soft words into Lance's ear, says, "But how about nobility? Where is the fight left in you? Do you see any good in this world at all?" and Lance nods slowly and closes his eyes as her magic washes over him_)

(_Hours of hours of conversation with Arthur, him nodding, speaking hushed about pride and honour, about the way the world should be, and slowly he slips from 'Morgana' into 'Morgause' and his eyes glaze over--_)

It almost hits worse when she hits the ground, palms first, for the second time in less than fifteen minutes. Her throat seizes up, warm acid threatening to spill over, but there's nothing in her stomach and she's left to dry-retch onto the filthy floor, a small receipt from a local jewelry store and a ripped-open condom foil.

Her head spins, and memories – ("Homework assignments.") ("I need you to go up there.") (The wind toying with her hair as she stares down into the depths of the city--) – keep pouring in, but she can't make sense of them, and they quickly dart away beyond her grasp.

Merlin draws in a breath of air. "I know where he is," he says, faintly. "Oh my god, Gwen, we need to get to Pendragon Towers, we need to get there _now_ before--"

"_What is happening?_" Gwen demands, her voice climbing to a pitch. "You're still not making any sense--"

"It's _Arthur_," he says, plaintively. "I don't know what he's going to do, but I know where he is, it can't be good. He's going to Pendragon Towers, you know, where the CEOs and the accounting people are working. Something's going to happen, come on!"

Morgana has no idea what is going on. She feels she must be mad – or madder, she supposes – but it makes her moves freely along with when Merlin tugs her along, and Gwen's questions blur together until they become a comfortable litany of familiarity in her mind.

-=-

The towers are huge. There's five of them – Morgana spent a lot of time here, back when she still went to her job every day and slaved away on god only knows what in the hopes that one day, it would _mean_ something. They rise far above the city proper and stand near the central square, the economic heart of the region. It's said that every important transaction that happens here, every coin and every inch of debt can somehow be traced back to here.

Most importantly, though, they contain the company's newest asset: the magic registry, miles upon miles of computers and backups and backups of backups of names of anyone who has ever as much as conjured a spark, or turned the backyard blue, or cured a child of a deadly disease with only a few words and a salve. Soon, copies will be spread across the country. Right now, the base of it all lies here.

Uther chiseled a great empire out of this rock, she thinks, and only when Merlin nearly runs into the door does she realise that she's been running around without a skirt on. Just a pair of silly leggings, and now that it's filtered into her consciousness, she suddenly feels the cold.

"Do you have a key, or something?" Merlin sounds frantic. "I could blow the doors open but that might be a little too much if you know what I'm saying."

Morgana stares at him dumbly for several seconds before the words sink in. Then she scrambles around her pockets, looking for anything that might be a key. "I don't have one," she whispers, "_Fuck_, Merlin, you might have to--"

It's their third panicked fit of the day, and it is rudely interrupted by the sound of glass shattering. They both look up, and find that Gwen is holding a metal cane in her hands. The glass pane of the door in front of her has a large hole in it, and she's already reaching in to pull on the handle. "If things are as dire as you say, we don't have time for this!" she says, and she sounds out of breath. "Come on then!"

They don't need to be told twice; the both of them startle like deer at the sound of Gwen's voice. Glass shards crack under their feet as they stumble into the hallway. Tower one: they don't know how much time they have, but it's their first shot, and Merlin, at least, seems pretty sure he knows where he's going.

"70th floor!" he shouts, and changes his trajectory for the elevator. He smashes the buttons with his finger until they're both burning bright, and the numbers above the door start ticking away.

It's at least forty floors up. Morgana rests her forehead against the cold stone of the wall next to the elevator, and breathes. In. Out.

The memories are finally starting to fall into place in her mind, and she doesn't like what she's seeing at all. One strikes her hard, like a burst of lightning cutting through her skull, and she whimpers. "Gwen."

Gwen looks up, eyes big and flaring with the adrenaline of the moment. Too much energy, and nowhere to go until that elevator finally reaches the little zero. It's not a good look, it'd be an _alive_ look on anyone but it's definitely _not good_.

"Gwen, I think, I think I know where Lance is," she whispers, and her voice is desperate. She can feel the frantic tears that can't spill but that flow, thickly, with the sound of the words leaving her. "I think I made him come to me, I think I made him stay in the house."

She watches the information register. She watches Gwen's eyes go large, then small, and her upper lip sticks a little further, a little more stubborn, and a little lost. "You--" she starts.

The elevator says _ding_.

Merlin says, "We have no time."

-=-

"Lancelot."

Lancelot halts in his efforts to open up a lawn chair, resting it against the wall. It's dark inside of the building, but the lights of the city outside do something to compensate; the windows are large, and you can almost see the outskirts from here.

He's shooting Arthur a questioning look. _There are no names in Project Mayhem_, this Arthur knows, but he was nothing if not built to work things in his own fashion. Especially here, at the apex of his work.

"Sir?" he asks, respectfully.

"Are we sure everyone has left the buildings?"

Morgause might have been apathetic to the fates of the workers, but Arthur is more concerned. She claims they must have certainly vacated the premises hours ago. He is not so sure. There are hundreds of litres of nitroglycerin buried in the basements of four of these buildings, and the last thing they can afford is to be pinned with _mass murder_\-- the last thing his conscience should bear is yet another death, yet another future pinned down and smothered under glass. That is why this is happening to begin with.

Lancelot swallows. "I'll ask the men to look one last time," he offers, with a quiet nod. Arthur can read the thoughts off his face: he's starting to lose some of his resolve.

"Just take a peek at the outside," Morgause supplies. She stalks into the room and towards Arthur with that beatific smile on her face. "We can't afford waiting much longer. The police might be onto us." Lancelot gets a second glance. "Leave us," she says.

Lancelot nods. He looks more than relieved, he looks _grateful_ to be gone, and for a moment, Arthur wonders what it is that he's done that might affect an overzealous man like Lance the way it has. Maybe this isn't the best idea, after all.

"This is the only way to grant us all freedom, you know that." Morgause murmurs. As per usual, it's like she's reading his mind. "Remember what we talked about. Mercy begins here. In the end of the registry. In the end of the hunt. Sometimes that requires sacrifices."

"Do not doubt my resolve," he says, testily. The last thing he needs now is for her to start poking around his doubts like it means something. "He'll turn on the timers during the sweep. Everything is going according to plan. Now is there anything else that you need...?"

"No," she says, "There's nothing else that I--"

And then suddenly, illogically, there is silence. Where Morgause once stood, there is nothing, and Arthur feels thrown. A splitting headache blossoms into being in the back of his skull, scorching any bloody thoughts he might have had. He ducks his head, nearly stumbles into the glass pane beside him. He gropes for something to hold onto, and comes up with a chair.

His entire weight seems to sag as he falls into it, and forces himself to blink. "Morgause," he says, tentatively, but gets no response. "Morgause?" he tries again.

Silence.

There is no one there.

Fuzzy memories filter slowly back into his mind, of Merlin, talking about something... Something to do with Morgause. Something to do with Morgana. Something to do with _himself_.

"Arthur."

He finds familiar blue eyes watching him from across the room. The silence is so heavy it whistles in his ears. Only the emergency exit light manages to show him anything of the new arrival's presence at all, but he knows who it is.

"Merlin?" he asks, fuzzily. He still can't concentrate. It feels like his mind is somewhere else. He barely even registers the touch of one careful, long-fingered hand on his shoulder.

-=-

Gwen's eyes are a heavy accusatory weight on Morgana's. She flinches away from them as the lift slides smoothly up through the building, the lights flickering on occasion. At least there's no muzak; she's not sure she could deal with anything filling this silence right now. It feels real and painful like nothing has in quite some time.

But Gwen is still watching her with those eyes.

"I didn't know what I was doing," she stutters out, "I swear. Merlin, tell her-- please tell her."

The boy is no help to her. He just averts his own eyes. It's not just the most painful: in all the span of these past few years, it's the loneliest she's ever felt.

She has no idea how to bridge this chasm between her and Gwen right now. "Gwen, I'll try to explain everything. When this is done, I will."

"You will," Gwen says, and swallows. Her expression doesn't change. It's repression, pure and simple, keeping her head up high because it's the only thing she can do: Morgana knows, Morgana knows that expression very well. It's just the first time she's had it directed at _her_, and it hurts. "But right now I just need you to be quiet, Morgana. I need you not to _speak_."

She bites her lip and doesn't.

Something flickers on the edge of her vision, but she can't quite catch it. It's probably one of the floors passing by: going by the numbers that are ticking away like the end of it all, they aren't far from their destination.

She presses her cheek into the cold metal of her corner. The silence has something strange now, something chattering at the edges, something she can't grasp. It's a whine, maybe. A chatter. A buzz. A something.

A voice.

A snarl.

"_Morgana_."

The elevator dings for the floor. The doors slide open. She smashes to the floor. Fingers grip her hair and she's yanked back upright, her back slamming against the wall. The _hurt_ of it screams across her spine and she struggles, grasping at the elegant wrists connected to the hands that twist and pull at her hair.

"No," she pants, "No, no--"

Behind her, Gwen screams. "Morgana, stop doing that, Morgana, come _on_!" It must look insane, she thinks, deliriously, she's doing things to herself right now-- her face smashes against the wall, sparking more heavy warm pain up her nose. The sound of it, the _bang_ resounds sharply in her head and she'd flinch if she wasn't in the middle of something.

"Let go of me!" she splutters through the sudden flow of blood, and _shoves_. It's like a miracle, this massive gust of relief as the pressure gives away and she stumbles to her feet and turns, finding herself facing a familiar face. "I'm not letting you do this!" she snaps.

"You're not letting me do anything," Morgause speaks. "_You're_ doing this, remember?"

Behind her, Merlin's and Gwen's eyes are fixed on her. She must sound mad. But the reality of the situation is seeping in, and she refuses to do this again. Refuses to stand here and simper like some girl about the cruelty of it all.

"_Go find Arthur_!" she snaps.

From the corner of her eye, she can tell that Merlin barely hesitates. His priorities are somewhere else, and she's known that from the start. It doesn't surprise her when he turns tail and runs, skidding through the hallway to the destination he tore from her mind earlier.

But Gwen doesn't move. She's become a silent third participant in this, and she seems to refuse to leave it alone.

"I mean it, Gwen," Morgana calls. "I can deal with this myself. Lance must be in here somewhere, care for him."

Morgause has recovered her balance by now, and she struts towards Morgana, all arrogance. "I'm going to have him call for our men to throw her out of the building," she says, steadily. "_You_ simply need to take a seat. Sit it out. You're on the front row now, Morgana. It's time for you to enjoy reaping what you've sown."

"I will not stand here and let you destroy everything," Morgana shoots back. "Return to the hell you came from." Her eyes dart to Gwen, unmoving. It's the opening Morgause needs: she's shoved roughly onto a chair by calloused hands, one of which finds its way towards her temple.

"If you do not remain here," Morgause says, "I will kill her. And then I might kill you, if you force my hand. Be quiet."

Behind them, Gwen clears her throat. "Morgana," she says, controlling her panic to the best of her ability. "You can _fight this_, I know you can!" She nearly trips over her skirts as she throws herself across the room, her hands landing on Morgana's thighs.

Morgana's eyes shut. She has to think. She has to think, like she did back in that room. Seek out the memories, the fading flashes of information. She has to lock out Morgause's voice which swings from pleading to harsh, whispering to her about revolutions and the end of all things.

"Just two more minutes," Morgause whispers, her fingers heavy against Morgana's face. "And we'll get to enjoy what we've accomplished. This is everything we've wanted. Uther on his knees, the world granted a first chance at a new start – the forces that controlled the laws against magic, neutered..."

"Listen to me," Gwen asserts, all determination. "Listen to me. This isn't you. This isn't who you are, this isn't what you do. _Please_. You've always been better than this. You've always wanted the best, please, come back to me."

She grabs a hold of the sound of Gwen's voice like a string, laid out in the maze of her own mind. She realises she hasn't actually flexed or moved or did anything but _breathe_ for a while now. So she follows the string. And keeps going.

"_Morgana_," Gwen pleads. "I know you can do better than this. It isn't you--"

"It _is_ me," she breathes. Like in the motel room, it's the one truth that holds water, that means anything. "Gwen, this is _me_."

Her hands on her temple.

Her weight on this seat.

The threat of _her_ magic against her body.

Her hand on Gwen's body, shoving her away, at the body of some poor sap who just stumbled into the room.

And it is her hand on her own forehead.

"_Forbærnan!_"

The world gives way to the kind of fire that scorches everything in its wake.

-=-

"What's going on, Merlin?" Arthur asks, slowly. The scorch in the back of his head has faded down to something manageable, and he's starting to feel just a little bit annoyed. The shape in the doorway moves, blissfully enough-- it means he doesn't have to start shouting.

Instead, he pushes himself onto his feet. To his satisfaction, he doesn't waver this time. Good. It'd be a shame to waste a perfectly good fit of confusion on the carpeting.

Merlin seems to do something about his bottom lip, but Arthur can't quite tell, really. "It's a long story," he says, "I-- look, we don't have time, we have to make sure..."

Make sure. Ah. Right.

Arthur glances out the window, making out the shapes of the buildings that are about as familiar to him, if not moreso, than the faces of his own relatives. "It's too late," he says, simply, and finds to his subdued shock that underneath the confusion, he is perfectly calm. Resigned, almost.

Like a cow, he thinks, randomly.

He's fairly sure that loud intake of air is Merlin's, though. "But your father's _company_," he starts.

"Figured that out, have we?" Arthur asks, and pulls his gaze away from the glass long enough to really, truly make out the lines of Merlin's body in the shadows. "Come on."

The fears, the confusion, the rage towards his treacherous sexuality: they've also become absent underneath it all. He feels very tired, like he hasn't slept in months, and he just wants to touch something. Something that isn't glass, or carpeting, or quietly nodding yes-man that might as well be a piece of glass. Or a piece of carpet.

Or a paperweight.

He never claimed to be particularly poetic.

"Arthur, we can still do something," Merlin tries again. His feet are moving across the carpet, though. It's like watching something get drawn in by a magnet, inexorable, and it's comforting. "Maybe if we call the police, or the bomb squad--"

"It's not going to work," Arthur says, quietly, and reaches. Slowly, he curls his fingers around Merlin's, drawing them out. His palm fits snugly against Arthur's. His eyes are finally visible. "But it's all right."

With that tangible connection _there_, it becomes possible for Arthur to move his eyes away. To appreciate, once and for all, what's laid out before him. He swallows once. It's possible they won't trace this back to him; it's possible insurance will pay up, or that Father will dig up some random reserve somewhere and rebuild his empire. Use the propaganda.

Or it could be the end of it all. Throw his family into disgrace, thrust the country into one final, flaming ball of financial decline. Release the wizards and let them run rampant across this Earth, for better or worse. Leave him and everyone else scrambling to make everything right again.

Arthur hasn't got a clue what the future holds. He's been confused, for longer. But this isn't confusion. Rather, it's the absence of it.

Just this once.

He grips Merlin's hand more firmly, like he's a tether to something Arthur can't name. There are flashes and strips of memory returning to him now, but conversations held in his more lucid moments are still closer to his conscious mind, and more important.

Three people burst into the room behind him, but he pays them no heed. He's been trying for a long time, he realises, to find words to put to this.

"You met me at a very strange time in my life," he says. And just like that, the pressure releases.

Morgana's fingers tangle with his on the other side, and he feels safe, blanketed, and warm. Then a wall of noise tears through the air, louder than any explosion he's ever heard.

Before his eyes, the towers come down.

-=-

(This is not the end. It is only the beginning. But it is, at least, appropriately explosive.)


End file.
